


one toe at a time // skinny dip with me

by pmonkey816



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angsty fluff?, F/F, i also intended for lexa to act like a teenager but maybe i was just a weird kid?, i dunno there's just a happy ending but people cry and fight and shit before we get there, i intended for this to be fluff but i don't think i succeeded, so like maybe this is pillowy angst?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 16:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3984505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pmonkey816/pseuds/pmonkey816
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lexa is not particularly interested in watching the Sky People make drunken fools of themselves, but there are certain things about the Commander a person must understand. The first is that somedays she is weary--so tired of fighting she thinks she will say yes to any request made of her (unless that request is made by Indra, because it will most likely end with someone's head on a pike and it really would not behoove her or any under her command should she stoke the Sky People's fear of them any further).  The second is that her heart is not nearly as dead as she wants everyone to believe it is, as she wants to believe it is. The third is that there is a smile, found only on the lips of one person in the world, so rare it is worth all the steel and wood and cloth in the land of all the twelve clans.</p><p>Lexa would do anything for that smile.</p><p>She would do anything for Clarke.</p><p>Including accidentally drinking too much around the fire and splashing naked into a pond with two defectors, two people who hate her, and two buffoons.</p><p>What could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Lexa, you _promised.”_ Clarke was all but whining now which was, admittedly, tearing a bit at Lexa's resolve to not watch the skaikrumake drunken fools of themselves. Lexa had no patience for babysitting, beyond the hand-holding that being a commander of an army seemed to entail far more often than she'd like to admit.

 

“I did not promise anything, Clarke.” She replied evenly, keeping the sigh of frustration to herself though she knew by now that Clarke could hear the way it tinted her voice, however slight.Heard the clench in her jaw as she spoke. “I said I would return to your camp with you as a gesture of alliance between our clans. I never once agreed to 'party' with them.” The word felt strange in her mouth, and she had no clear definition of what it meant beyond Clarke's eyeroll and assertion that it meant 'you know, having fun. Do you know how to do that? Have fun?'

 

Clarke took a step forward to crowd into Lexa's space, sending her head spinning from the peculiar scent of the skaikru's clothing and the earthen, musky tinge of her skin. “Beja, Lexa. It would mean a lot to the alliance for them to see you as a person.” _Just what I don't want_ , Lexa thought bitterly, another refusal on the tip of her tongue. Until Clarke added, “it would mean a lot to _me_.”

 

And with that, Lexa felt the resolve that used to come so easy to her before she met Clarke, felt the walls built around her humanity begin to crumble and crack and the words hit her in the festering corpse she'd tried to tell herself her heart now was. The dead are gone, after all.

 

But Clarke made her feel it, the breath of life in her lungs and the pulse of blood through her veins. It was intoxicating and frightening (though she would never admit that to anyone) all in one, but she couldn't quite bring herself to hate it. It had been a long time since Costia, the woman who had been her soncha all those years ago, had brought these feelings forth so easily. That had been the height of her youth, when she was still second to Anya and had yet to ascend to her position as Heda. The days had felt longer, simpler, when where she and Costia could slip away to for stolen kisses had felt like the most important worry she'd ever have.

 

And then that light had been extinguished. So easily. With calls of 'Heda' that brought her stumbling out into the first cracks of pink dawn warming the frosty morning air to find a scarred, rotting head on the ground. Left as a threat, a warning, a declaration of war.

 

Clarke took her by the hand and tugged, trying to pull her toward the group assembled around the fire. Any other leader who tried to do so would have lost that hand with a swift flick of her wrist. “Come on, I got to know your people in Polis. You should get to know ours, now that things have finally settled. Get to know us in peace, not blood.” Lexa considered it, for a moment. It would be irritating at worst, and a fortification to the shaky foundations of their alliance at best, she figured. After everything that had happened between their clans—between her and Clarke—solidity was desperately needed.

 

She ducked her chin slightly in a nod, and Clarke bloomed into joyfulness. “For the alliance.”

 

Clarke's smile and the hot slide of her palm against Lexa's was intoxicating. “You won't regret this, Ipromise. C'mon.”

 

(Lexa already did)

 

Clarke pulled harder on her arm, and Lexa—though she knew it was childish and not at all befitting her station—couldn't help but drag her feet just a little as she trailed behind her.

 

She immediately caught the eyes of Lincoln and Octavia, the most solemn-looking of the group, who both offered her a nod of recognition and respect. After her retreat at the Mountain, they had defected; she could not truly blame them. Had she not been indebted to her people in the way she was, she might have done the same.

 

They were a bridge between these worlds, between sky and forest. Lexa almost envied it, the way they were able to move between them. But not everyone had the luxury of flexibility. Some people were destined to be citadels, to hold space and ground for others to come and go as they wished. This was what she'd tried to teach Clarke. She wondered if she had succeeded.

 

“Griffin!” The one she recognized as Raven stumbled to her feet, steadied by the broad blonde man (Wick, she'd later find out) behind her when she almost stumbled over her injured leg. Lexa frowned. She knew from experience that saying so out loud would make Clarke withdraw from her, but the weakness of allowing such a person to continue life as a warrior in their clan stunned and confused her. “You made it! Have a drink!” She shoved the metal cup toward Clarke, clear liquid sloshing over the side and making the fire spit when it splashed into it.

 

Clarke laughed, and Lexa marveled at the sound. She couldn't remember if she'd ever heard it before, in all honestly, clear and open as it was here. The times Clarke had laughed around her, it had been derisive or sardonic, never an indication of genuine amusement. Clarke reached over to take the cup from Raven.

 

“O-kay, Raven. I think you've had a bit too much already.”

 

“Pfft.” Raven waved a hand dismissively. “I'll drink all you fuckers under the table, just watch me.”

 

“All right, babe.” The blonde man pulled her back, guiding her to a less-than-graceful seat on the log. “Drink us under the table while you're sitting before you add 'burn victim' to the list of obstacles you've had to gracefully overcome.” Lexa took the moment to appreciate him. He was muscular, though not in the way she was used to.

 

The Skaikru had odd musculature, giving them more in common with the crumbling remains of statues than the Trikru. Their muscles were balanced, forged not of hard work and survival, but surely from intention. She wondered what Clarke looked like beneath her clothes, if she'd have more in common with the lean, thick strength of Lexa and her people or the tight, balanced definition of the Skaikru. Raven was still talking, she noted, as Clarke handed Lexa a cup with a shy smile that made her chest clench.

 

“Glad to have you back, princess.” Bellamy, who had been sitting quietly to the left of Octavia, said. The gentle smile on his face made Lexa's blood boil. _Ste yuj_. She thought the words, and they echoed as Gustus' gruff baritone in her head.

 

“It's good to be back, Bell.” She returned the smile, as soft as Lexa had ever seen her. Except no, that wasn't entirely true. Clarke had been nothing but soft in the tent that night, when Lexa had thrown custom and strength to the wind and let herself be weak for Clarke, when she'd asked Clarke without words to be hers. The memory of Clarke's gentle kiss sent a thrill through her skin.

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You wanna bone. _We get it._ ” Raven all but shouted, and every head around the fire was whipping toward her, flickering panicked eyes to Lexa and then back again. And Lexa was not familiar with their slang but she was not an imbecile. She tightened her grip around her cup. Raven, however, noticed none of this in her inebriation. “I built a stereo system. It's so sick, check it out.”

 

And then the girl was scrambling for something, and a sudden, deep noise shook the ground beneath their feet.

 

Instinctively, Lexa dove, wrapping an arm around Clarke to force her to the ground as well before tucking into a roll and unsheathing her sword in one smooth movement. She stayed crouched, in case there was more fire, and scanned the trees for enemies. The sound continued, though now it warbled and warped in a way Lexa had never heard before, except perhaps when her people beat on the long, thin sheets of metal they'd scavenged from the ruins of the nearby cities. She turned back to the group of them around the fire. Lincoln was tensed as well though he still sat on the log and the rest of them watched her with wide eyes and gaping mouths.

 

“What.” She growled low in her throat, “was that?”

 

“Uh, music?” Raven offered, cocking her head to the side as though she couldn't comprehend why Lexa would ask.

 

Lexa found herself looking to Lincoln again, who gestured to a small box that sat on the ground beside Raven, pulsing the strange, fast beats and warbles into the air. Her brow furrowed. _How...?_ But her lack of knowledge was weakness, so she simply rose to her full height, tilting her chin up to look down on them all. Every single one of them (except Clarke, of course) seemed to cower into themselves at the scathing look.

 

“It's, you know, electronic.” Raven added, a bit sheepishly when she realized how little that probably meant to Lexa. “You know what? Don't worry about it. I can turn it off if it's freaking you out?”

 

Clarke, who now stood behind Lexa, laid her hand gently on Lexa's shoulder. “It's all right.” She spoke quietly, like she might send Lexa diving to the ground again if she moved too quickly or loudly, but it was clearly intended for both her and Raven. The touch calmed her, and she felt a tense frustration boil through her. _Ste yuj._ “Go sit down. Let me refill your drink.”

 

Lexa went and sat, adrenalin still rushing through her veins. She didn't like this, not at all. They were drinking, making so much noise. If there was an attack right now, they would all be—

 

“Here.” Clarke sat next to her, and the heat of her thigh soaking through the fabric on their legs cut her thoughts of war short.

 

Lexa nodded and took the cup from her. She allowed herself to let their fingers brush, just to feel Clarke's skin again. She so rarely had the opportunity, even during the time they'd spent together in Polis. “Mochof.” She mumbled, and Clarke pressed her shoulder into Lexa's, making them sway like branches in the wind.

 

“Anytime.”

 

The conversation droned on, and mostly it seemed the Skaikru were content to let Lexa and Lincoln sit quietly in the corner and watch. Lexa spoke excellent English, but much of what they were saying ended up lost on her, especially when it was Raven, Wick, or Monty who was speaking. They spoke much of their former home, and Lexa tried to remember as much of it as she could. To learn more about their people. For the sake of their alliance. Not for Clarke. Of course.

 

The liquor burned her throat more than the wine of the Trigedakru, but there was a restless energy in the thick nighttime air that had her sipping at it every minute or so. Every time her cup went empty, someone passed the jug over to fill it. She thought nothing of it until her head started to feel hazy and her thoughts began to bounce around her skull with an uncontrollable force.

 

Her movements too became more impulsive, which she realized quite alarmingly when Clarke turned to her with a raised eyebrow and Lexa realized her hand had settled on her knee. She withdrew it wordlessly and went back to staring at the fire, not willing to admit to either herself or Clarke that it had been entirely instinctual, entirely a product of the way Bellamy was eyeing Clarke from across the fire, yellow light dancing bright across his dark, somber eyes.

 

(It had nothing to do with the way Clarke gazed back with a look that should have been Lexa's alone)

 

“So, like,” Monty started, leaning in toward the fire conspiratorially to engage the gathered Trigedakru, his eyes flickering from Lexa to Lincoln as he spoke, “what do Grounders do for fun?”

 

“The same things you do.” Lincoln fielded the question, and Lexa was grateful to be spared the inquiry. “Dance, sing, fight, swim.” He shrugged a shoulder. He'd become more talkative now, and Octavia less so. A bridge between not only their people, she noted, but each other as well.

 

“Swim? With those river snakes in the water?” Monty snorted. “No, thank you.”

 

Lexa felt a stutter of indignation in her chest. These people come down to the ground, know nothing of this world, and question their ways? She would not let it stand. “The river is not the only place to swim.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, and she immediately regretted it when all eyes fell to her.

 

“Whoa, wait.” Raven held a hand up in the air. “Hold the fuck up, guys. Commander panty twist actually does things for fun?”

 

Lexa bristled and straightened (she hadn't realized she'd been slouching in the first place). “I am no longer a child, but I was not always Heda.”

 

She caught Lincoln smirking out of the corner of her eye and she almost— _almost—_ smirked back before catching herself. If only they knew. Memories of slipping out of TonDC with Lincoln and the other seconds with a bottle of pilfered wine and the reckless drive of youth washed warmth through her skin and again, she found herself thinking of Costia and the little copse of trees they'd hide in to press lips to skin, keeping quiet so the other seconds would not hear them from the nearby pond . She found herself thinking of the glint of moonlight off Costia's dark skin, the bright, soft light of her eyes. The whispers of a _i hod yu_ as Costia broke and shuddered around Lexa's fingers. Perhaps it was the drink making her weak, or Clarke's presence at her side, but she _missed_ those days with a passion that left a gaping ache in her chest. She clenched her fingers tighter around her cup.

 

She returns to the moment when she realizes Lincoln is speaking again, gesturing faintly to the east. “...a pond not far from here. We would go when we were staying outside TonDC.”

 

Octavia's eyes are bright and starry when she speaks (Lexa thinks she gets why Lincoln would try to move the Earth for her when she looks at him like that, Sometimes she thinks she catches Clarke doing so, but she always looks away before Lexa can tell). “Can we go?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said this was gonna be two chapters, but my motivation is lacking and I wanted to get something out to y'all. I know exactly where this is going but I haven't had a single day off in like two weeks and probably won't in the next week so... I hope you're still interested/enjoying it? Lemme know.

“No.” The word comes to her before she can truly think about the idea. Her whole body seizes and stammers at the thought of it, of bringing these _outsiders_ to her childhood haven. To the place that holds her most intimate  moments, dew like the drops of her sweat and her tears, and the whisper of wind through branches echos of war cries and unrestrained laughter. She does not want these sky people to be able to listen, to hear the trees whisper her secrets, her weakness to them.

 

Octavia lets out a little whine of disapproval, but doesn't push the matter. Lincoln, on the other hand, watches her for a few quiet, contemplative seconds before he responds in Trigedasleng.

 

“ _She wouldn't want you to keep it from them._ ”

 

It is so presumptuous, so frustrating that she clenches her jaw tight and fixes him with the cold stare of her position. She is Heda now, and she will not be spoken to as such. And she can still feel Costia's breath ghosting along her neck, still hears her voice chanting  _ai hod yu,_ _Lexa, sha_ where it had been buried deep enough that it would not be remembered. Perhaps that is why she responds at all, when ordinarily she would simply say nothing.

 

“ _Do not speak to me about_ _her_ _._ ” The words are supposed to come out as a growl—a warning—but instead it sounds broken to her own ears.

 

“ _Leksa._ ” His voice is kind, and this is what she hates most about Lincoln. The way he could always see straight through her. He had never been cut out for the life of a warrior, even a healer amongst them, strong and valiant though he is. He should have been a Speaker, she thinks, one who could grow old and tend to the children and the well-being of a village, hold their history and their soul. But he was borne of warriors, and it was his destiny to fight and die for his people. His eyes flicker to Clarke then back to Lexa. “ _You cannot have both of them at once._ ” Lexa's chest clenches around her heart and squeezes and it's painful and uncomfortable to feel so open, so tender, so easily read by him. She says nothing. “ _Besides,_ ” his lips curl in another smirk and he leans forward—apparently to be nearer to her, but she knows better, knows he's preparing. One of his heels lifts to rest against the log. “ _You know what happens when you're last to the lake._ ”

 

“ _Linkon, no.”_

 

Her protests fall on deaf ears as his smirk grows wide across his face, breaking into a full-blown grin. He looks wild and mischievous and she can't help but be glad for him, that he's found a place—found happiness—here.  _Some people are citadels,_ she tries to remind herself, but then he's on his feet, running as fast as he can toward the gates, leaving nothing but his lingering shout behind him.

 

“ _They're a deer's ass!”_

 

And damn it, Lexa doesn't  _lose._ Ever. Which is why she's sprinting after him without consciously willing to, throwing her trepidation to the fire to be consumed and cleansed. She can hear the shuffling and shouting of the Skaikru as they  stumble to their feet to follow clumsily behind them.

 

“Open the gates!” Lincoln shouts, still lumbering toward the guards posted there, who are beginning to look increasingly alarmed at the two Tree people who are barreling toward them, looking for all the world like they will not be stopped, like hungry panthers in pursuit of prey.

 

Behind her, Octavia takes up the chant, “open the gates!” And soon, the rest of the  S kaikru is joining, whooping and yelling and  lea ping in their excitement. This either appeases the guards or frightens them into compliance because  then the gates are scraping open and Lincoln is shoving it wider to accommodate his bulk. Lexa slips through easily in the gap he leaves and when she's several paces out from the camp, she hears the gates shut behind them with a clang. There are footsteps behind her also, and she  tear s her gaze from Lincoln to make sure the  S ky people are following. Octavia is a few steps behind her,  then Clarke and Bellamy lagging just  after . The rest are a ways back, close enough to keep visual contact but far enough that she knows they won't be a threat.

 

It's just her old friend she needs to worry about, then. Good. She returns her gaze to him and he's not far in front of her but the lake is not far either, so she knows she needs to speed up fast. She takes a deep breath and blows it out evenly, letting the breath clear her mind of the thoughts and inhibitions that normally now plague it—she lets go of strategy and gives in to instinct. It seems that among these people, her only weakness is her strength, anyway. She lets her body take over, lets her feet navigate over and around the roots and logs of her home, and she feels...

 

Free.

 

For the first time in as long as she can remember, her feet are not fused to the earth. The heft of her armor does not weigh heavy with souls passed to new vessels in her name, with blood and tears shed and the distended stomachs of starving children. The pounding of her feet on the ground is not a war beat now, but a song—a rhythm sent to the sky in celebration, the hum of a contented tune under the breath of a nomtou caring for his yongon or a hunter coming home to her family after a lengthy day in the forest.

 

She pulls up to Lincoln, a broad smile on her own face (it makes her cheeks ache but she can't stop) as she begins to pass him. He takes a chance and throws an elbow out to the side, shoving her a couple steps off course and making her brush along a sapling lean from the cluster of bushes choking out its roots. She nearly snaps the poor young thing in half before she's able to regain her footing.

 

“ _You cheat!_ ” She shouts the words at his back, now just slightly in front of her again, and he chances a glance back at her, teeth gleaming in the darkness.

 

“ _There is no cheating in war, Heda._ ”

 

For the briefest of seconds she feels the weight threatening to return to her at the reminder of her place and she feels stupid, so utterly  _silly_ for playing at these children's games. But then she sees the brush that separates the lake from the eyes of the forest and she charges forward again, shoving her body into Lincoln's back as hard as she can to make him stumble forward then using his lowered shoulder as leverage to push herself through the brush and into the clearing (if that also prevents him from righting himself quickly, well, that's an added bonus). She pulls her shirt over her head and shoves her pants down and off her hips. She unclips her chest binding and lets it fall off of its own accord and then she's splashing into the water, a cool and welcome change from the  thick, summer-hot air around them.

 

She hears Lincoln just after and dives forward, forcing herself toward the center of the lake as fast as she can to keep her advantage on him (she's always been the better runner, but he's always been able to catch her in the water). There's shouting just beyond the splash of her arms entering and exiting the water and the garbling silence of one ear then the other dipping below the surface:

 

“Marco!” The voice is deep and shrill and she thinks, _Wick._

 

“Polo!” _Octavia_.

 

Then there's another splash of a body entering the water and a hand grasping at her ankle and she's underwater, trying to blink away the filmy haze of it and slip away from Lincoln. He pushes off the bottom of the lake and grabs her, the both of them wrestling to both break the surface and also keep the other under. A third body comes and pulls him away, and she kicks up easily, tasting the air in a few hungry gulps before Octavia and Lincoln surface. Octavia is gasping but also laughing uncontrollably, clinging onto Lincoln's back as he treads water.

 

“You're doing well.” Lincoln says with a smile back at her.

 

“I had a great teacher.” She replies, matching the sparkle he holds in his eyes for her with an equal intensity.

 

Suddenly, Lexa feels out of place, as though she's intruded on a moment far too intimate for her presence to be appropriate. In the distance, she sees the rest of the Skaikru gathered on the shore, Raven still clutching to Wick's back with her arms and legs. Clarke is there, too, resting her hands on her knees, her hair wind-tousled and perfect around her face. And even from so far, she feels it—the connection of their eyes, the way they seem to find each other from anywhere and tug them toward one another.

 

“And I had to protect my Commander.” Octavia adds with a laugh and brings a stiff hand to her forehead then jerks it away awkwardly.

 

Lexa smirks at Lincoln, who just rolls his eyes and leans back so he can nudge at her hip with his foot.

 

“What are you bitches waiting for? Get in here!” Octavia calls to the shore. Before either Lincoln or Lexa notice it, she's jerking her arms in clumsy, too-loud splashes and gliding awkwardly toward shore. They decide wordlessly to follow, though Lincoln jostling her again has them clashing and splashing at one another, each trying to swim with the other interrupting them and pulling them under the water.

 

Lexa's feet touch ground and she uses the sudden advantage of leverage to send Lincoln flying over her shoulder and back down below the surface in what would have been a crushing impact had they been on solid land. She manages to catch a glimpse of his face as she sends him sailing over her shoulder, eyes wide and mouth gasping open in surprise, and she laughs. _Laughs_ , deep and full and heady, and she stumbles toward shore to avoid being pulled back under by a grumbling, dripping Lincoln. He looks like he's about to retaliate, stepping toward her with a glower, when he seems to notice something and pauses, hovering between in the water and out. His eyes scan the shore with bunched eyebrows, and Lexa turns to see what has alarmed him.

 

The Skaikru is gaping at them, Raven's hand clamped tightly over Wick's eyes (though, Lexa notes, she does not avert her own gaze from Lincoln once). Bellamy is watching them with flared nostrils and jaw set tight, and Monty has taken a keen interest in turning over rocks on the ground with his boot.

 

Then there's Clarke. Her lips are set in a tender, amused smile and even in the shadowy light of the moon looming large and round above them Lexa can see the pink flushing her cheeks. Clarke's eyes flick up guiltily from where they'd been studying Lexa's body. In that moment, they catch again and Lexa is breathless. She feels the tug of the blue of them, dotted and swirled with all the constellations in the night sky, and Lexa takes a step forward until she's close enough to see each mark distinctly again.

 

“Hi.” Clarke breathes out the word, and it's warmth to know Lexa can steal her breath, as well.

 

Lexa smiles, and she knows it's subtle compared to Clarke's but she thinks maybe this is what Clarke needs—someone who can hold the space for her to be wild and unrestrained. Suddenly, she feels much less like a citadel and much more like a home.

 

“Oh, come _on._ ” Octavia whines, turning to Lincoln and placing a hand on his bare shoulder. “Please tell me we'll never get that gross.”

 

“Too late.” Raven has alighted from her perch on Wick's back and begun to strip her clothes from her body. “Don't worry, we love you enough to only joke about it behind your back.”

 

“ _Whatever.”_ The word is a groan, and Octavia turns to splash back into the water with Lincoln close behind her. Soon, the rest of the Skaikru is stripped and following them with the exception of Clarke and Bellamy who hangs back, one thumb tucked into the waistband of his underwear.

 

He's hesitating, watching Clarke and Lexa from the corner of his eye with lips thin from how hard they are pressed together. He reaches a hand out and it settles possessively on Clarke's arm. She turns to meet his gaze and smiles.

 

“It's okay. Go, I'll be there in a minute.”

 

With one final glance to Lexa that leaves no question of what will happen should harm come to Clarke in his absence, he pulls the shorts down his hips and runs out into the water after his friends. Clarke clears her throat and shifts her gaze to her boots.

 

“Are you going to undress, Clarke?” Lexa asks, words soft as she tries to stem the nauseating mixture of panic and excitement swirling in her stomach.

 

Clarke raises her eyebrows, eyes glinting with mirth. “You haven't even bought me dinner yet, what kind of a girl do you think I am?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i said there was only going to be one more chapter, but tbh this story's kind of gotten away from me. there's an epilogue after this and an ending in sight, promise.
> 
> also, i guess i'm one of those cool kids who have a tumblr now so somebody come be my friend and tell me what the hell i'm supposed to be doing with it.
> 
> pmonkey816.tumblr.com

Clarke raises her eyebrows, eyes glinting with mirth. “You haven't even bought me dinner yet, what kind of girl do you think I am?”

 

Clarke's face falls a bit when Lexa remains unmoved, and it sends an odd pang of something akin to regret through Lexa—an old voice that reminds her she isn't what Clarke wants, what Clarke needs. That she isn't made of easy banter and the path of least resistance like the Sky People. Her hands clench against her bare thighs, the ones covered in marks—dark ink and scars and sun-spots. She is the earth, the trees, marred and warped by weather and time, and Clarke is the sky, spotless but for clouds and stars and all the things that are untouchable and perfect and _beautiful_.

 

“Sorry, that probably doesn't mean anything to you.” Clarke moves to settle on the ground, bending a knee so she can tug at the laces of her thick-soled boots. Her fingers work the knot loose nimbly and the pounding anticipation of Clarke—bared—clouds Lexa's mind. It is stronger than even the alcohol had been (not that the haze has lifted. It has only shifted to fit the situation, she notes with disappointment and pleasure in equal turns), and she returns her gaze to Clarke's face. Clarke pulls one boot off then begins working on the other, glancing up to catch Lexa watching her. A corner of her mouth turns up so briefly it's gone almost the second the memory coheres. She pulls the second boot off then clears her throat and settles back to lean her weight on her hands. “Could you turn around? Give me some privacy?”

 

L exa does as asked and crosses her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling too exposed, too imperfect to be  naked like this in front of Clarke. She thinks of the  gnarled flesh on her  back marking the number of people s h e' d killed  as a Second like a knot marks a  healed wound in the oaks . She wonders if Clarke has noticed, if it has sent a twisting regret through her the way it sometimes does for Lexa, alone in her tent in front of the mirror when she runs a finger over each one and  _remembers_ .

 

_Kills do not leave you, Lexa._ Anya had told her once, the heated tip of a blade boring into the tender young flesh just  above her  left shoulder blade .  _We wear them as scars so that we remember their sacrifice._ Anya's hand—rough and calloused and everything Lexa's skin, her heart, wasn't just yet—covered her  forearm to steal her attention from the simmering pain in her  back .  _If they do not follow us as victories, they follow us as ghosts. Do you understand?_ Lexa had nodded, she remembered, but she hadn't truly understood yet. She was still numb, still shaking from the wind of the other warrior's blade swishing past her face,  of the force it took to shove her own into his gut and the squelch it made, still think ing of the way his eyes stayed open and how he  crumpled into an unnatural contort ion on the ground.

 

Warm fingers graze against her hip and Lexa closes her eyes tightly, feeling... No. Clarke makes her feel too much, she will not, cannot keep letting herself do this. Because life is not more than survival. Life is brutal, and short, and it is her responsibility to ensure others don't need to live with the burden of this knowledge, that they may sow seeds and cobble shoes and tailor clothes and grow old and become elders who sing songs of the joyous beauty of life, of victory.

 

“This is gorgeous.” Clarke's voice brings her from the brink of darkness wine always threatens Lexa with, and she swallows down the images, the grief. She tries to focus again on the pride, straightens her back.

 

“It is the mark of the gona.” She does not worry that her voice sounds strained or clipped. She _doesn't_.

 

“Warriors, right?” Clarke's fingers trace along where the tattoo narrows at her waist. She hears the rustle as she lifts her body from the ground to get a better look at where the thick black lines begin to once again spread along her ribcage. “All warriors have this?”

 

Lexa nods before finding her voice, which comes out scratchy and tired. “Yes, in some way. It teaches tolerance and endurance.”

 

Clarke's hand stills then twitches, her nails scratching lightly against the sensitive skin stretched across Lexa's ribs. “How old were you?”

 

She reaches up to cover Clarke's hand, pressing her fingers into the spaces between Clarke's.“It began when I first turned ten years, and finished when I completed my training.” In the beginning she had dreaded it, but by the end it was a welcome sort of burning, a thousand small taps of wood on bone on skin that she would survive and be marked by—a mark of her people, a tree that spanned the entirety of her side from her thigh to her armpit. By the end she was no longer a child, but a warrior who would endure anything to protect her people. She touches her free hand to the butterfly marking on her arm, bringing Clarke's attention to it. “This was the final piece, the first one I was able to choose for myself.”

 

“Why this design?”

 

Lexa licks her dry lips, unsure of what to say. The truth is, she'd always found the butterflies beautiful, that they used to illuminate Costia's face just so when she kissed her on warm summer nights much like this one. “The Elders say the butterfly guides the spirit through to its next life.” She says quietly, letting herself lean toward the lingering warmth of Clarke's presence behind her.

 

Clarke hums out a little noise of acceptance and takes a step forward. Her hand slips away from Lexa's to trace a line down her spine. “And these?”

 

“The marks of the eleven other clans.” She explains, her voice beginning to tremble slightly with the shiver she's suppressing in her body, no matter how hard she attempts to clamp down on it. “A symbol of our unity.”

 

Clarke seems to notice her hesitance (though apparently she misunderstands its origin) because she asks,“even the Ice Nation?”

 

Lexa tenses but doesn't move. “Even the Ice Nation.” It had been a different sort of pain, to let them place their mark upon her after what their Queen had done. It had been a moment of transformation, the torch to the funeral pyre of Lexa the Girl. Every organ in her body had burned, leaving only the spirit and wisdom of the Commander behind. Painful, yes, but necessary.

 

“And the other leaders have your symbol on them?” Clarke's hand slides back up to rest on Lexa's shoulder and she steps forward again, her bare body fitting along Lexa's back, her face pressing into the hair behind Lexa's ear.

 

The brush of exposure-hardened nipples and coarse hair against her jolts Lexa and she suddenly feels like she is falling from a very great height, wind whistling in her ears and a thick vertigo overtaking her mind. She reaches back to steady herself against the dizziness and the twisting fear of impact crowding into her chest and throat and stomach and finds purchase in the soft skin of Clarke's hips. She exhales sharply, taking wild, gasping breaths like she'd just broken the surface to the pond after minutes in its depths.

 

“Do you have any more?” Clarke's voice is just against her ear, filling her head, making it impossible to think of anything else.

 

“On my shoulder.” She isn't entirely sure how she's still speaking—still _thinking—_ with Clarke so close, but she manages to choke out the words.

 

“Show me.”

 

She turns, slowly, reluctant to break contact with Clarke's body, nervous she'll never have the chance to touch and be touched by her like this again. She forces herself not to look, despite the urgency with which her eyes strain to dart down and take in the glorious sight of her, as much as she wants to simply take her into her arms and away from the eyes in the pond and make her regret ever turning away from her affections. Instead, she keeps her eyes focused on Clarke's face and raises a hand to the mark along her own right shoulder.

 

Five stars in a line.

 

Clarke looks down to where Lexa's hand lingers (though her own hands remain resting against Lexa's hips), studying the symbols—the one closest to her neck less faded than the rest—briefly before glancing back up to meet Lexa's gaze. “Stars.” She lets out a sound that is almost a laugh. “What do they mean?”

 

“One for every war I've won as Commander.” Lexa responds quietly, losing herself again in the speckles and swirls of Clarke's irises. There is a question there, one she has no answer for. She bites down on thoughts of destiny and fate and love and says instead, “it is a tradition much older than my understanding.”

 

Clarke nods. There is a long silence in which she finally allows herself to trace the outline of each of the marks, soft fingers lingering on the most recent, the most vibrant.

 

Lexa still remembers the pierce of the bone needles, the musty smell of the dark soot paste they were dipped in hanging over the small room. She still remembers the songs Anya used to sing her during her first Marking to make the time pass faster and distract her from her suffering; tales of courage and heroism that she did not yet know would be sung about her in several years' time. Now that Anya and Costia are both gone, there are none to sing for her, to soothe her. Now the melodies play only in her head, keeping time to the sharp, rhythmic tap of pierced skin.

 

“Are there marks for wars lost?” Clarke asks and, for once, Lexa regrets her position. Clarke seems to bring this longing out of her, in a way she hasn't felt since Costia's death. The innocence about her, the way she does not think immediately of death and pain and darkness even now, this is what Lexa adores about her. And so, she wishes. She wishes her life was simpler, wishes it had fewer absolutes.

 

There is no room for “maybe” or “someday” in the life of Heda.

 

“No.” Lexa's heartbeat picks up in her chest and she reaches up to once again hold Clarke's hand in hers. “So many deaths without victory cannot be without consequence.” She swallows down the thick throb of her heartbeat, hoping Clarke can't feel it, can't sense the jittery dis-ease that thrums along her skin.

 

Something in Clarke shifts and she moves to pull back, but Lexa doesn't release her grasp around her hand and her waist and she can't pull away. Lexa relaxes her grip slightly, loosens it so that Clarke knows she will not be held against her will. Clarke doesn't attempt to move. “So, if you lose a war, they kill you?”

 

“The opposing army does, yes.” Lexa agrees. “If I were to survive, it would mean I had shown cowardice and my people would punish me accordingly.”

 

Clarke snorts and looks away, her eyes flitting to the sky and catching the moonlight, and Lexa can see the tears shining in them. “Jus drein, jus daun, right?”

 

Lexa nods. Clarke turns her head further, trying to distance herself and it aches in Lexa's chest and she feels hollow again, for a moment. Heartless. She regrets sharing this with Clarke, stealing that piece of innocence to fill the desperate emptiness inside of her.

 

“There is peace now.” It's a flimsy attempt and they both know it, and Clarke's hand tightens against her shoulder, digging nails deep into the skin there. Lexa welcomes it, these marks of a different kind, these marks ofClarke, marks of passion. She releases Clarke's hand and instead brings it to her cheek to turn her face back toward her. “Let's not speak of this.”

 

There are still tears in Clarke's eyes, though they do not fall, and she leans forward to rest her forehead against Lexa's. “Sometimes I forget nothing's permanent down here.” The tip of her nose brushes gently against Lexa's, and once again Lexa finds it difficult to breathe.

 

Is Clarke going to kiss her?

 

She tangles one hand in the hair at the nape of Clarke's neck and wraps the other further around her waist. “Was there permanence among the stars?”

 

Clarke snorts; a lonely, melancholy sound. “No.”

 

Lexa licks at her lips, restless with the feeling that she's waiting for something, stuck in a repeating moment that stretches tighter and tighter and threatens to snap at any moment. It's the same feeling as learning to be a scout amongst the trees, settled on a branch and holding her spear in tense, inexperienced hands. The feeling that one moment could send the winds of war blowing either in the Trikru's favor or against them.

 

This is that moment with Clarke.

 

And Lexa is a brilliant tactician, but love—well, plans don't last long in either a battle or an embrace but she gets the sense Clarke is much more suited to this sort of improvisation. So, she waits; feeling tense and heavy and drunk and consumed by a fire she'd forgotten how to feel long ago.

 

“For fuck's sake, Princess, either take her into the trees and do it or get your ass over here!” Octavia calls from the other side of the pond, shattering the moment, the suspension of time, the magic. Just like that, it snaps and the tide turns against her.

 

Clarke breathes out a chuckle and moves to pull away again, but Lexa clings tighter to her. “Just...” But there's no more to say and Lexa has never been good at wasting words so she simply breathes in the smell of her closeness one final time then lets Clarke's skin, her hair, slip from her fingers and steps back.

 

Clarke  watches her with startled, confused eyes for a moment, then— when it's clear Lexa has no intention of saying any more— starts walking toward where the others are splashing around, chasing each other and shrieking and yelling and how had Lexa managed to not hear them before? How had the rush of Clarke's voice in her ear completely drowned out the row these idiots were making?  She shuts her  eyes tight, the press of it comforting in its darkness, and wills away the emptiness of Clarke's absence.

 

It's eerily familiar, this chill skimming along her skin, this lack of feeling. It is what she is—a sacrifice to the gods of war.

 

Octavia's voice rings out again, piercing the emptiness of the evening and she turns her head in time to see her chasing Clarke in the periphery of her vision, the water slowing them to an awkward shuffle. “Heda! A little help here?!” She's barely audible over Lincoln's war whoops and the yelling and splashing coming from behind her, and she finally allows herself to turn fully, to see what is happening.

 

A small smile tugs at her cheeks, nearly imperceptible to one who does not know her, at what she finds. Lincoln and Octavia are both trying to get past Wick, Raven, and Bellamy to take down Clarke. Bellamy is squared off with Lincoln, locked in a tussle of brute strength and agility, while Octavia is doing her best to dart around the combination of Wick and Raven (who moves with significantly more ease in the water than she does on land, but is still not nearly as quick as Octavia). She catches sight of Clarke hiding behind them—Monty is a few feet away, laughing at his friends' antics and “guarding” Clarke, who is lounging carelessly in the water. She's laughing nearly as hard as Monty is, occasionally breaking to shout encouragement or direction from her vantage point.

 

Lexa makes sure that no one is looking at her and dives down beneath the surface of the water, keeping low to the ground so she won't be noticed. The water is murky, dark clots of dirt littering the path to the pale legs she's keeping her eyes trained on and small, silvery fish darting away to avoid collision. Seaweed brushes along her bare stomach the closer she gets and she realizes Clarke had intentionally positioned herself so she was behind a thick clump of it, so that any who got past her guards would get tangled in the weeds. Clever girl.

 

Not clever enough.

 

She's now just ten or so feet away and she kicks off the bottom of the pond, propelling herself forward as fast as she can and knocking Clarke's legs out from under her with her shoulder. Clarke lets out a yelp (muffled by the water, but still audible) before crashing into the water next to her. She looks beautiful like this, clouded by bubbles, her hair fanned out and eyes shut tightly, limbs thrashing uselessly around her and Lexa smiles fully now, kicking off the ground again to scoop Clarke up in her arms and break the surface, this time with Clarke's hips in her hands.

 

Clarke's arms and legs wrap instinctively around Lexa, and she gasps for breath and shivers at the blast of nighttime air on her wet skin. She looks down to Lexa and grins. “Hey there, stranger.” She whispers softly, reaching up to brush a lock of dripping hair that had gotten loose out of Lexa's eyes.

 

“Hello, Clarke.” And suddenly they are the only two in the vicinity again, and this is _dangerous,_ Lexa thinks. Reckless. Yet, she can't seem to stop herself from leaning forward, from pressing her lips to Clarke's, dripping and salty and a little sweet. She can't seem to let this moment pass her by again, curious eyes and consequences be damned.

 

Clarke's kiss is glorious. Perfect. Tender and passionate and clumsy and everything a kiss should be. But it only lasts a moment, because then Clarke's lips, her heat, are gone and all she can feel is the brush of wind against her stomach. Bellamy's voice is booming and loud when he shouts, and it echoes through the forest around them.

 

“Get the hell off her!”

 

She snaps back to the moment just as Bellamy's hands connect with her shoulders and send her stumbling back a couple steps. She narrows her eyes at him, but does not move.

 

“Touch me again, Bellamy kom Blake, and you will regret it.” She growls, doing her best to raise herself to her full height.

 

But he's taller than her and her weapons are far away on the shore. She takes him in, wondering for the first time how he'd be in hand-to-hand combat. He moves with confidence, shoulders squared and chin raised in a high defiance that rivals her own. She wonders if he's had some sort of training. But that training would be with a gun, and he is far too cocky for his own good without one strapped to his hip. She could use that to her advantage. He takes another step toward her, raising his arms to shove her again and she tenses, readying herself to duck under his arms and deliver a sharp blow to his stomach.

 

“Bell, stop it!” Clarke horns her way in between them before anything can happen.

 

“No.” He snaps back, eyes fiery and defiant. “What the hell are you thinking, Clarke? Have you forgotten what she's done? Left all of us to die in the mountain? Left your _mother_ to die?”

 

Clarke takes a step back, stunned, her mouth clamping shut, her jaw pulsing with the grind of her teeth. “Of course not.”

 

“But you let her kiss you.” He snaps, pointing over Clarke's shoulder to where Lexa is standing with legs wide and stable and her arms loose by her sides. Still ready for a fight. “Are you insane?”

 

Clarke does not look away, and her nostrils flare in anger. “You don't get any say in who I kiss, Bellamy.”

 

This seems to soften him a bit, and he holds his hands up defensively. “Okay, fine. Look. It's not about the kiss. It's about—” He waves a hand dismissively in Lexa's direction, like he can't quite find the words to describe something so disgusting. He takes a step forward but Clarke doesn't back down. “Her. What she's done. It's about _trusting_ her again.”

 

“I never said I trust her.” Clarke snaps back, and there's a sudden burn in the back of Lexa's throat, a dryness. All of the affection that had been brimming in her heart drains in an instant.

 

Clarke doesn't trust her. What is she doing, here, acting like a foolish child with a group of intruders on her land? She clenches her fists tightly, feeling wild in a manner entirely different from how she'd felt in the woods not long before.

 

“Don't be an idiot, Clarke. She's playing you. She's a cold-hearted bitch” his hand reaches out past Clarke to shove lightly at Lexa's shoulder again in a display of force that is not lost on her, “who doesn't care about anyone but herself, and if you think you're anything different to her, then you're out of your fucking mind.”

 

Lexa doesn't know whether to sigh or grin. She'd warned him, after all, that if he touched her again there would be consequences and Lexa always keeps her word. Lexa shoves Clarke aside and her fist connects with Bellamy's jaw so quickly it stuns everyone in the pond into silence, the only noise the crash of his body hitting the water. Okay, so maybe that felt more cathartic than terrible. Yes, she had definitely wanted to hit him and the way he'd toppled half into the water had been nothing but satisfying.

 

“Lexa!” Clarke snaps, eyes wide and panicking.

 

Lexa has no time to think about Clarke's feelings because then Bellamy is back up and charging at her, tackling her into the water (a mistake on his part, because she's much more adept in it than he and it causes him to lose the advantage of his size). She twists them so that he's face down and she's above him, her weight holding him onto the bottom of the pond as he struggles to free himself. Strong arms are pulling her after that, and she's out of the water again with her arms pinned to her sides by Lincoln's hold, and Octavia and Wick are holding Bellamy back, though he's coughing and spluttering and struggling for air so hard Lexa doubts he'd be much of a threat to her right now anyway.

 

“I can't believe this.” Clarke snaps, stomping toward the shore. “You're both acting like children!” She's pulling on her clothes, then, and the rest of them are simply watching, all chests heaving in vain attempts at breathing normally, at calming the rush in their blood from the fight.

 

“Clarke!” Bellamy shouts, moving to follow, but Octavia holds tight to his arm.

 

“Bell, don't.” She says quietly. “She needs space.”

 

“Let go.” He growls back, fixing her with the most menacing look he's capable of giving to his sister.

 

Octavia does as asked with a roll of her eyes. “Your funeral.” She mutters as Bellamy darts through the water to dress and follow where Clarke has disappeared into the trees.

 

Lincoln has released her by now, but keeps his hand resting on her bicep. It is more a calming gesture than a hold, and she allows herself the comfort of it for a few moments while the Sky People still stare after their leaders, now disappeared into the darkness of the woods.

 

Raven sighs. “Ain't no party like an Earth party cause an Earth party always ends in a fistfight and tears.”

 

Octavia snorts. “Is that not how parties went on the ark? Cause I'd only been to one and the guard showed up and put me in the sky box.” Her voice is full of a mocking sort of innocence and Raven and Wick both laugh short, breathy laughs that are more of relief than humor.

 

“Don't know about you all, but this is just a normal Saturday night on Mecha station.” Wick says, shoving lightly at Monty's shoulder. He joins in the laughter reluctantly.

 

It fades quickly, leaving them standing naked and stunned and silent in the dark water. Octavia clears her throat and motions to the shore. “We should probably head back.”

 

The return to camp is significantly more somber than the mad rush to the pond. They all walk slowly, hands shoved in pockets or wrapped around torsos. Lexa leads, keeping her ears keen for signs of attack but hears and sees nothing but the rustle of rodents on the ground and night birds in the trees. There is comfort, at least, in the familiar weight of her daggers against her thighs and ribs.

 

Lincoln walks next to Octavia a few steps behind her, but she can feel his eyes on her back, worming into the skin between her shoulder blades. She rolls her shoulders, trying to shake off the feeling, but it persists. A part of her wants to turn around and snap at him, but there has been enough conflict for one night. She had lost control of herself, and she can practically hear Indra's scolding already.

 

Raven falls into pace beside her about halfway through the walk, hands tucked into the pockets of her bright red coat (camouflage is really, really not the Sky people's strong suit). “I've been meaning to ask you something, Commander.”She sounds so quiet now, so sober, that she almost seems an entirely different person from the woman who almost fell into the fire just a few hours ago. Lexa nods her assent, and Raven continues. “When we first got here, the trees lit up at night.” She motioned to the darkness around them. “They don't anymore.”

 

It's not actually a question, but Lexa understands her meaning well enough. “It comes and goes with the seasons.” She runs a hand along the bark of the tree, feeling the coolness of it, the slight moisture that she has always associated with the season of growth. “The rainfall is nearly over. It will return soon.”

 

Raven nods and they keep walking quietly for a few paces. Lexa is no stranger to silence, but now it is so loud, so heavy with words not spoken and questions left unasked. For both of them. It is nothing like being among her people, a people who value the calls of the birds and the brush of wind through trees. There is no silence in the forest, not truly, not if you know what you are hearing. But here, with Raven, the quiet feels like an absence of something that should be. Something that Lexa has no idea how to provide. So she simply continues to walk.

 

“He's an asshole.” Raven says finally, when the towering fences of Camp Jaha start to peek through the cracks between trees. “But he'll come around. I mean, look at us. One of the first things he said to me was 'I should've killed you when I had the chance.'”

 

“Charming.” It's the sort of thing she'd normally say to Clarke or Anya or Costia and no one else, but she's tired and there's something familiar about Raven (perhaps the fiery loyalty of Anya?) that tugs at the humor in her.

 

And sure enough Raven laughs, loudly. “I never thought I'd say this, but you're funny, Commander. Clarke's really been rubbing off on you, huh?” She nudges at Lexa's ribs with her elbow, slowing her pace as they draw nearer to the front gate. Wick, who had been lingering quietly off to the side, steps forward to talk to the guards and Raven grasps Lexa by the arm, keeping her out of earshot from the rest of them. “Don't hurt her again, okay?” For once, the girl's eyes are serious but without the venom with which she usually glares at Lexa. “There are plenty more places around here that could go boom.”

 

Lexa nods and searches for words—any words—to convey the truth. Clarke could hurt Lexa much more easily than she could hurt Clarke. “I am only a threat to Clarke if the alliance breaks.”

  
Raven squints at her, eyes flickering from one of Lexa's to the other. It's a long, tense silence before the scrape of the gates draws their attention away from each other. Lexa waits until Raven starts moving to do so herself. They still walk side by side, but neither says anything until they're through the gates.

 

Raven pauses at the entrance to the metal ruin the Sky people reside in and turns to face Lexa. She opens her mouth, then shuts it again and looks down to where her boots are tracing lines in the dirt. Finally, she says “Good night, Commander.”

 

Lexa nods courteously and replies, “good night, Raven.” Raven walks away to resume her place at Wick's side and Lexa turns her head to look over her shoulder at Ryder, who had come and begun to shadow her since she passed through the gates. “All is well. Rest.”

 

“Yes, Heda.” He says, and she listens to the sound of him walking away, to the rustle of his tent flap opening and falling shut again, before she allows herself to return to the small room provided for her by the Sky people.

 

She undresses quietly and slowly, slightly sore still from her tussle with Bellamy, then lies on the bed, pulling the scratchy blankets provided for her over her body. Tomorrow, she will need to bathe and find Clarke but now, now she is tired. She closes her eyes and lets herself imagine Clarke in a room much like this one, once in the sky and then again later, on the ground, dreaming of the one who could thaw a heart frozen by loss. She falls asleep to the thought that maybe they have both found them.


	4. Chapter 4

Costia is there,  in front of her, untouchable and carefree behind the curtain that separate s their living space from their bed. Lexa is lingering, just watching the way she sometimes does when she returns from travel or war, savoring the sight of  Costia as Lexa always remember s before she became Commander, before she had to keep secrets, before she was no longer her own person but  instead the vessel f or every Trigeda's hopes and dreams. Ash, Costia's apprentice, is seated  cross-legged and straight-backed on the floor in front of her chair, and Costia's long, thick fingers are running through  the tight mass of curls on his head, followed by a deer bone comb . She is braiding his hair, tying the tight curls into distinct rows along his skull that dangle down to his shoulders. The action makes Lexa shiver despite the boy's presence  and if it weren't for her reluctant affection for him, for Costia, for the tenderness of this moment, she thinks she might order him to go so she can have Costia right then, make her cry out loud enough for all of Polis to hear .  But there is time  (is there? there is, surely. she's just returned) , and he is speaking, so she waits.

 

“ _Tell_ _it to me again.”_ Ash says, tilting his head back slightly so he can see her face hovering above him.

 

Costia just laughs, the sound making Lexa's gut twist in anticipation (and some feeling she thinks she might have forgotten) and tugs on his hair, making him wince. “ _Don't move.”_ It's a harsh command,  enforced by powerful hands, but there is such great tenderness in her voice it is almost a balm itself for the pain.

 

He  grima ces again as she pulls the hair taut and wraps it around itself. “ _Please, Costia._ ”  He repeats his plea, though this time he remains as he is, staring straight ahead out the window to where Polis bustles and thrives below them.

 

Costia's hands still for a slight moment, and Lexa thinks she should make herself known, free Costia from having to sing the song of her praises again, but her legs are thick and heavy and rooted to the ground. She opens her mouth to speak, but her throat is dry; cracked and swollen shut and it's all she can do to just keep swallowing the thick panic rising in it.

 

“ _Okay, Ash. The short version._ _If it will keep you still_ _._

 

_Once, not far from here, where the forest meets ice, the Commander watched her army fall. One by one they crashed, brave and ferocious even in the face of certain death, to the dirt to be consumed. The trees around them were burning, caught by the flame-tipped arrows of the Ice Nation. From the smoke, a phalanx appeared. And then, when they separated, clearing a path straight to the Commander, a woman. The Commander fought her hopeless battle until the very end, sword clashing with sword until she was weakened and fell to her knees. She took a deep breath and let it out just as the Ice Queen's blade sliced clean through her neck._

 

_Deep in the forest and far from the war, a child took her first breath, swaddled in the midwife's arms. Her mother cut the thread that tied the child to her and collapsed from where she'd been crouched to lie on the ground aside the midwife. A butterfly alighted on the child's arm, and she knew that, even though her husband had passed to the next life, he had passed his strength and ingenuity onto her. They returned to the village, and the healers found the child healthy._

 

_And so, she grew into a promising young warrior, as fierce as_ _the_ _gorilla and as cunning as_ _the_ _panther. It was these qualities that had her brought under the mentorship of a warrior in her village at the_ _young_ _age of ten._ _She_ _was a good mentor, a_ _ruthless_ _warrior, and the girl grew nearly invincible under her tutelage; she moved like a shadow,_ _all but_ _impossible to catch and with a precision that brought even the most powerful foes to their knees with one blow.”_

 

Ash wriggles impatiently, not moving his head but nudging at Costia's knee with his elbow. “ _Tell me_ _the good part!”_

 

She laughs again, this time more quietly, and Lexa feels the weight of what she has forgotten pressing heavily on her chest now, as well. She thinks of her mentor, wonders when she will return to Polis, thinks she must share a meal with her, and perhaps a spar for the sake of it. But the weight just crushes her further and she finds she's tired—so tired. Her knees simply cannot hold any longer and she collapses down onto them, her arms hanging limply at her side.

 

“ _Patience, I'm getting there._

 

_One day,_ _the warrior and her second_ _went out to scout for a group of exiles who had been_ _robbing_ _those who could not defend themselves for food and supplies when they were a_ _mbushed. They fought hard and true_ _and_ _,_ _in the end, they killed the betray_ _e_ _rs_ _but still the_ _y were_ _injured. The_ _second_ _'s leg was broken_ _and she bled heavily from the wound._ _H_ _er mentor_ _had to carry her back_ _toward their village in her arms_ _._ _She walked and walked until she thought she could go no further, when she_ _realized her second was slowly growing pale. That is when the butterflies came, and the warrior grew furious, swatting them away._

 

_'You cannot have her!' She shouted, drawing her dagger to swing it tiredly at the small creatures. But one slipped past and alighted on the second's arm. The warrior dropped to her knees and found she could no longer feel the second's chest fill with breath. She reached up to press her knife against her second's braid. 'Yu gonplei ste odon.' She whispered._

 

_Just as she began to cut at the hair, she_ _heard the rustle of footsteps on the forest floor—not quiet enough to be scouts or numerous enough to be enemy warriors. She looked up to see_ _hunters rushing toward her_ _._ _These hunters were not from their village. Instead, t_ _hey_ _were from_ _a_ _plac_ _e not far south_ _of the warrior and her second's own_ _, and they were taken immediately to the healer's tent. After a meal and having her wounds cleaned and bandaged,_ _the warrior_ _returned_ _home_ _to report to her leaders,_ _leaving her second to_ _fight for her life_ _. It took two moon cycles for her leg to_ _mend_ _and the glow to return to her cheeks_ _,_ _but they say it took only one moment, one glance, for her to fall in love with the healer's apprentice._

 

_They spent m_ _any_ _of t_ _hose moons_ _together, the healer's apprentice tending to the_ _second_ _'s wounds and keeping her brow clear of sweat and grime. They spent long_ _day_ _s talking, of everything and nothing, until they would run out of words and the_ _second_ _would take the apprentice's hand_ _in her own_ _,_ _face flushed_ _with passion_ _and,_ _eventually,_ _the apprentice would_ _muster the courage to_ _trace the_ _second_ _'s_ _cheeks and lips_ _with her fingers. When_ _the second's mentor_ _returned and it was time for_ _her_ _to leave, she told the apprentice she could not live without her, and asked her to return_ _home_ _with her._

 

_The apprentice kissed the second sweetly on the mouth, and replied_ _'_ _I_ _do not_ _w_ _ant_ _to be_ _apart from_ _you, but I_ _have duties here I cannot_ _leave._ _'_ _And so t_ _he apprentice stayed_ _in her home_ _._

 

_But the two were less than half a day's walk away_ _from each other_ _, and they would visit one another as often as they could. They continued like this for a long time, and though they did not get to see each other as they wished, neither had eyes for any other. When the rainy season came, the apprentice became a healer, and she requested permission to leave her village and go to_ _be with her love_ _._

 

_The ensuing summer was full of joy for the both of them, despite the fact that war was brewing and the_ _second_ _was often sent away on missions that could easily cost her her life. They never spoke of such things as death. Instead, every time the_ _second_ _was going to be sent away, the healer would_ _rise early in the morning_ _to_ _pick_ _a flower_ _and tuck it_ _into_ _her lover'_ _s coat._

 

_'A poppy,' she'd say, 'for sweet dreams.'_

 

_'My dreams are always sweet,' the_ _second_ _would reply, 'for I always dream of you.'”_

 

Lexa feels it, the phantom pressure of Costia's fingers tucking the orange flower into her pocket, the lingering sweetness of her kiss against the rough crunch of boots on the ground marching to their death. Of the grim line of her mother's mouth as she marched beside her, only turning up at the corners when her daughter caught her gaze.

 

Go die for me, the regents said, so off they went.

 

She'd press the flower and keep it to pull out whenever she was alone and missed her home. By the time she became the Commander she had whole books with the same flower dry and smashed between their pages, brittle and dead and broken but preserved.

 

“Costi.” Her voice breaks in her throat as she chokes out the word, and it hurts but she does it again anyway, over and over and over. Costia doesn't pause or look up, simply keeps talking to the boy, whose head is now covered half in braids and half in a dark poof of hair.

 

“ _The next summer, the_ _second_ _los_ _t_ _her_ _moth_ _er_ _in battle to the river clan_ _._ _All she c_ _ould_ _do is watch as she_ _was_ _knocked back and swept away by the current. There_ _wa_ _s so much blood in the water and a river warrior trying to skewer her with his spear but she d_ _id_ _n't have to see to know. She ha_ _d_ _lost her family, her light. When the battle_ _wa_ _s over and she s_ _a_ _t by the fire, wiping_ _at her skin_ _with an old rag and a bowl of water already tinged pink with the blood of a hundred more experienced warriors, she kn_ _e_ _w what she_ _had to_ _do._

 

_It was night w_ _hen the_ _second_ _returned,_ _and_ _she_ _came to her_ _healer's_ _bedside._ _T_ _ook her hand_ _with_ _tears in her eyes. 'I lost_ _my mother_ _.' The_ _second_ _told her, her usually firm voice soft like a breeze through the leaves. The healer hushed her and went to pull her closer, but the_ _second_ _did not budge. '_ _Few things are certain in this life_ _._ _It is important to keep close the ones that are while you still have the opportunity._ _' She placed a tender kiss to the healer's knuckles. 'Let me be yours for this life and all to come.'_

 

_The healer smiled and the next day the Speaker bound them with a kiss and the mingle of blood on their palms._

 

_And they were happy. Two summers passed before their world was shaken again, this time by a_ _grand_ _celebration. A group of seconds had become warriors, and_ _several_ _regents_ _had traveled from Polis to observe them, as a sign had been handed down to them that the Commander's soul could be found there. The warriors jostled and fought to be noticed, each trying to prove their worth and their strength to their leaders._

 

_All but one, who remained off to the side, contented to simply watch from the warmth of the fireside. One of the regents, an elder woman with dark, fierce eyes that were gray like a brewing storm, noticed and went to sit beside her. The warrior acknowledged her with a respectful nod._

 

_'Tell me, girl.' The regent spoke without looking at the warrior, instead keeping her eyes on the fighting not far from them. 'Why do you not fight? I have heard of your prowess and skill, so surely it is not cowardice. Do you not wish for power and glory?'_

 

_The warrior did not hesitate in her answer. 'I already have power and glory in the passion I have for my family,' she said. 'I do not want for more.'_

 

_'You have one promised to you?' she asked, and the warrior nodded in response. 'And children?'_

 

_'No, though she is a healer, so we often care for those orphaned by the wars or disease.'_

 

_Now the regent looked at her, and there was a recognition, a familiarity in those cold eyes that frightened the young warrior, but she would not look away. After a few moments of silence in which all that could be heard was the crackle-pop of the fire and the shouts of the other warriors, the regent spoke again._

 

_'Your answer has moved me, girl. I would like to give you a gift to equal that of your wisdom.' The regent began to lay items out on the ground before the warrior, fifteen in all, and then said, 'choose any three which call to you.'_

 

_The warrior opened her mouth to protest, but could not argue with the stern cut of the regent's jaw and the something that pulled her toward three of the items before her. She leant down to examine them closer, before choosing the hand mirror, the_ _throwing_ _knife, and the_ _stone._

 

_The regent gasped, then fell to her knee in front of the young warrior, who straightened in surprise. 'Heda, I knew I would find you again.'”_

 

“No.” Lexa is on the ground still, still watching Costia braid Ash's hair, the look of contentment on both of their faces at hearing the tale both comforting and aching and if only she could remember what it is—this helplessness, this pain—maybe she could make it abate. “ _No_. _I don't want to go._ ”

 

“ _The regent told the new Commander that they were to leave in two days' time, and the Commander immediately returned to her tent to wake her healer._

 

_'_ _She_ _is_ _me_ _.' She whispered and pressed her forehead to the healer's. The healer's eyes blinked slowly open and she was still halfway in dreams, but the words' meaning w_ _as_ _not lost on her. She gazed into her_ _warrior_ _'s eyes and found tears there. '_ _She is me_ _and I will lose you.'_

 

_'No.' The healer pressed a sweet kiss to the Commander's lips and brought_ _her lover's_ _hands to hover over her heartbeat. 'Whatever happens, wherever you go, whoever you are, I will always be yours.'_

 

_The Commander was taken to Polis for training and, though it took some time before she was allowed the distraction of her promised, the healer eventually followed. They were happy; the Commander was strong, intelligent, kind, and benevolent, and all of Polis loved her. The healer still pressed flowers into the Commander's coat when she was called away from her, and the Commander still spent her nights away dreaming of being back in her promised's arms. The healer had no duties in Polis, belonging to the Commander as she did, and so she spent her time with the people: the children, the farmers, and the smiths. She took on apprentices to teach the art of healing to any who wished to learn. She brought them joy and light, and the Commander brought them safety and comfort and a time of plenty._

 

_But not all such things can last forever.”_

 

Ash frowns, only a small tuft of his hair not braided against his scalp now, and turns to look at Costia. “ _I don't remember that part.”_

 

Costia doesn't laugh now, instead she sighs and cups his cheek in a gentle caress, turning him to face her. “ _Not every story_ _can end_ _well_ _.”_

 

Lexa bites down hard on her lip to dam the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. “ _That's enough, he's heard enough.”_ She's begging, shamelessly, as if that might keep the story from continuing, from ending.

 

“ _For one day, a warrior—tall and broad and strong—_ _who had been in a nearby_ _scout_ _camp_ _came stumbling_ _back through the gates_ _bloodied and near death and relayed a message from the Ice Nation_ _'s_ _Queen._

 

_'I have what is yours.'_

 

_The Commander knew of what he spoke. Her healer had gone to a group of warriors who had been injured and could not be moved without risking further harm to offer her assistance. Her healer was in the hands of the Ice Nation._

 

_And there was nothing she could do. Going after her would be walking her warriors into certain death, and she would surely lose more people than she recovered. So she waited, and hoped, and begged the spirits to return her love to her._

 

_The Commander did not sleep for several days, and so she would sit at her window and watch the stillness of the night sky, taking refuge in the stories told of their light and the darkness cloaking her woe. One night, when it was nearing the sunrise and she had still not slept, a butterfly floated by her window, and she knew her pleas had been heard._

 

_The butterfly alighted on her outstretched forearm just long enough for the Commander to whisper, 'yu gonplei ste odon' before it took off again and disappeared into the night sky._

 

_That morning the Commander awoke to calls of her title, and she made her way out into the morning air with firm, steady steps despite knowing what she would find. Two of her warriors stood there, bloodied and beaten and raw from where skin had been stripped from their bodies, holding a severed head in their hands. The head of her healer. The Commander stood strong, kneeling only to cut the braid from her wife's head, and returned to her home. But she need not cry, for Polis shed the tears she could not. It is said the Commander lost her light that day, and she grew cold. She was no longer the woman who could be found wandering the markets, now she was the lone figure in the flickering candlelight of the capitol.”_

 

“I remember.” She gasps, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. It's all rushing back and it's _funny_ , almost, how she could not cry then, but she can now, so much so she can't breathe between her sobs, and she thinks that maybe she will die this way, drowning in her own tears—a fitting end to a life of fire and steel. She cries and cries and cries but Costia does not hear her, though she doesn't continue the story, either. Her fingers simply tie off the final braid on Ash's head, and they both rise to leave the room. Lexa reaches out for her, but the curtain is still there, and she can't muster the strength to push through it and touch her.

 

A hand lands softly on her shoulder and she turns to see Clarke, eyes rimmed red and voice hoarse when she speaks. “What you did tonight will haunt you for the rest of your days.” She says and Lexa breaks just that little bit more, crumpling to a heap with her forehead and her elbows grinding hard into the ground. She feels as if there are no muscles in her body, as though she is alive only in spirit and her body is dead, weighting her to the earth and keeping her from moving, from following Costia.

 

Clarke kneels down beside her and wraps her arms around her trembling body, and when she speaks again it is right into her ear. “Ste yuj.”

 

Lexa shakes her head and gasps for breath to speak. “No, you don't understand, I can't _._ I'm _not.”_

 

Clarke sighs and speaks again.

 

“Ste yuj.” But this time the voice is not Clarke's, it is Anya's, shouting at her from above when she'd been beaten to the ground in their sparring sessions and tried to give up.

 

“Ste yuj.” Her mother holds her close to her chest the evening after a battle when the crunch of crumbling bones and the shining squelch of swords through skin, the smell of death and smoke all around her, wakes her in the middle of the night and her mother wipes away the silent tears from her cheeks.

 

“Ste yuj.” Costia's smooth voice, the morning Lexa had first left for Polis, uncertain when—if—they'd see each other again.

 

“Ste yuj.” Gustus' voice trembles and he speaks between gasps of breath and she sees his spirit leave his eyes, a blank face staring back at her behind eyelids she's squeezed shut.

 

She forces her eyes open again, to remind herself that it is Clarke holding her, but there is nothing. Only darkness, near-black and near-silent and with that same distinct smell of nothing in particular that makes her skin crawl. It takes her some time to realize where she is, cut off from the reality of the world as she is here, in this box that crashed to the ground from the stars. The sound of life echos on in the hallway, faint and indistinct and not nearly loud enough for it to be far past sunrise. Just the occasional squeak of boots down the hallway and the low hum of someone going about their morning routine. But she has always been late to bed and early to rise, so she pushes the blankets from her legs (she'd all but kicked them off of her in the midst of her dreams anyway) and rises to feel along the wall for the button that will light the room again.

 

The light does nothing to mollify the sense of unease that is creeping along her skin so she dresses quickly and hurries out to where the sun graces the land, the trees. It is only out here, in the air that smells like dirt and sap and the trace of deer and moss and _life_ that she feels herself begin to return to peace, to rootedness, to safety. Ryder is sitting outside of his tent, a dagger in his hand and a stone in the other, gently scraping it sharp. She moves to sit next to him and nods, and he gives her a barely perceptible nod in return. She reaches into the bag of supplies they'd brought with them and pulls out the dried meat. He sets down the knife and takes his share of the food from her hands wordlessly, tearing it in his yellowing teeth and chewing on it noisily.

 

“ _Something bothers you, Commander_ _?”_ He asks after a few glorious (albeit brief) minutes of silence where they simply alternate between large bites of meat and swigs from a shared water canteen.

 

“ _No._ ”

 

He nods again but keeps speaking. “ _No one entered the camp in the night.”_

 

She wonders how he knows, how everyone seems to know. She'd thought she had kept her affections for Clarke adequately  discreet . At least she had tried to. Though she couldn't quite keep her eyes from straying toward her when Clarke was focusing her attentions elsewhere, to study the slope of her jaw, the jut of her chin, the small mark just above her lip—that solitary imperfection that made  Lexa's body  jolt into being again  every time she spied it and thought of what it might feel like beneath her lips (she had started to forget before last night, and even then she hadn't had the opportunity to experience it properly ) .

 

“ _That is no concern of mine._ ” Lexa responds, doing her best to keep the tone of her voice even as she continues to focus on the strip of meat in her hand.

 

Ryder watches her from the corner of his eye for a while, still and contemplative in the early quiet of the morning where only the rustle of wind and call of birds is audible. Most of the Sky people are not  awake yet, sleeping as they do in the cool dark of the metal, and for this she is thankful.

 

“ _Yes, Heda._ ” He says finally, as though it as an order. And she supposes it is, an order to leave her pain alone and buried where it is undetectable, untouchable.

 

She feels a twist in her stomach, as though her dream wants to make itself known, as though it wishes to remind her she'd never truly stopped feeling and it had been festering in her gut like a poison-tipped arrowhead this whole time, and suddenly she can feel Ryder's nearness acutely with a prickle of goosebumps on the side of her body where he sits. She stashes the remaining food back into her bag and goes to seek out the bathing area Clarke had shown her yesterday.

 

There are taps with strange mechanisms she does not fully understand but can use well enough, with makeshift stalls crafted from an odd, slick fabric. She is wary of the material but grateful for the privacy as she strips herself of her clothes, turns on the tap until her bucket is full and dumps the water over her head. It is cold, and harsh, but she feels cleaner already for rinsing her skin of the film from the pond's water. She scrubs herself down with her soap, paying extra attention to the spot on her knee she must have scraped when Bellamy tackled her into the water. It stings, and she can see the reddish tinge around it and the greenish pus oozing from it that indicates something is wrong, but she has little desire to explain to the Skaikru healer how exactly she'd gotten it. She shuts her eyes tight, trying to tamp down the memory of her own foolishness the night before, then decides to simply collect some seaweed later today and make a poultice herself so no one will be the wiser and dumps the next bucket of water over her head with no more than a shiver at the chill.

 

When she's dried adequately, ran her oils through her hair to keep it manageable and unmatted (she doesn't care much whether it knots or not, but she knows her hair must be more intricate than the rest of her warriors' and she has no desire to make anyone's life more difficult than it must be) and dressed, she returns to the main gathering area of the camp to find Ryder gone. Off scouting the camp, she supposes, and she thinks perhaps a walk might be a nice way to clear her head so she sets off to find him. She begins to move toward the parts of the camp she is less familiar with when she hears a sharp buzzing followed by a yelp and tilts her chin toward the sound. Raven is there, sitting on a stump and sucking petulantly on her injured finger. Lexa moves closer.

 

“Stupid fucking radio. You're not even worth all this effort, you know.” She throws the device—more like shoves it toward the ground—and attempts to run her hands through her hair with an exaggerated groan of annoyance, though they keep snagging on the tangles. She turns away from the thing like it might beg her to pick it back up. That's when Raven sees her. “Oh! Commander. Hey, didn't see you there.” She raises an eyebrow in a way that feels uncomfortably like an accusation, like _how long have you been standing there watching me, exactly_?

 

Lexa just motions to the stump next to her. “May I?”

 

Raven nods then bends down to pick the radio back up. “I've been trying to get this radio on a hand crank so it doesn't take up charge from the Ark's generators and divert energy from essential functions.”

 

Lexa nods, though she understands nothing of what Raven has just said. She trusts the girl to realize her mistake sooner or later, and she does just that moments later. Her lips twist in an awkward, thoughtful quirk as her gaze flickers from the device to Lexa and back again. Finally, she scoots a little closer to Lexa and turns so that her knees make a table between them. She places the device on it and points to the jumble of small smooth strings inside of it.

 

“See those wires? They carry the electricity.” Lexa raises an eyebrow and Raven just sighs. “No electricity, huh? Shit.” She tapped a finger against the side of the device for a few moments before shrugging. “I can't explain hundreds of years of innovation to you in an hour, but I'll do my damn best. I mean, if anyone can do it, I can. I'm literally the best mechanic on the planet.” She tilts her head and looks at Lexa for a few minutes, and then to the device, and then to the trees, to the gate, to the sky. And then her face lights up. “It's like lightning. It can conduct through these wires—it can't go through the coating so it's safe—and that powers the radio.”

 

Lexa feels fairly certain this Sky girl is teasing her, and her lips press thin in impatience and annoyance. Is it not bad enough she had to fight one of them the night before? Is it not enough that she let him live after putting hands on her? Is it not enough that she made a fool of herself in front of the Skaikru and lost the attentions of the only one of them that truly mattered to her to begin with? “You are telling me that you have tamed the lightning in the sky and put it in this box—” she motions to the radio then looks back up at Raven “—so that you can listen to music?”

 

Raven nods solemnly, then replies, “yeah. When you put it that way it sounds stupid. But that's not exactly—“ She cuts herself off with a little sigh, and her brow twists in focus. She attempts to run her hand through her hair again and curses when she catches on a snag.

 

Lexa reaches into her bag for the oil sac and holds it out to her. “The pond water is not good for hair.” She says, and when Raven doesn't take it from her, extends her arm further in encouragement. “It is just oil, Raven.”

 

“Oh.” Raven takes the sac and examines it for a minute, hesitating after she's uncapped it. “How much do I use? I mean, do I just put it in there, just by itself?” Lexa sighs and takes the sac back, then rises to stand behind Raven. She stiffens when Lexa first runs her hands through her hair, but slowly relaxes as she pushes strong fingers along her scalp. Lexa can't help but think back to Polis, when Clarke had let her do this for her, can't help but think of the feeling of Clarke beneath her fingertips, even if it was entirely innocent. Raven hums out a little moan. “That's nice.” She murmurs out the words, sounding almost half-asleep.

 

“Yes, Clarke enjoyed it as well while we were in Polis.”

 

Raven snorts. “I bet she did.”

 

Lexa's hands still for a moment as she thinks about Raven's words. “I thought you believed she and Bellamy...” She realizes in that moment she has no idea what the Sky people's words are for these sorts of things, so she settles on one that will do, “...cared for one another.”

 

Raven leans her elbow onto her good knee and looks back at Lexa, effectively pulling her hair from her hands. Her lips are pursed and her eyes are cold and hard but melting at the edges into worry lines. “Look, Lexa. I'm gonna level with you, okay? I still don't trust you. Peace, new alliance, what-the-fuck-ever, you're still the person that left us all to die at the Mountain, that left all of us with so much blood on our hands. You're still the reason so many people I loved are dead. You gave those commands.” Her gaze is fierce now, nostrils flaring and jaw tight and she looks something like a bear, reared up and ready to kill. “So, do Bellamy and Clarke have a thing for each other? I have no idea. Would I rather Clarke be with him than you? You bet your tight little ass _because I don't trust you_.” She leans back, raises her hands up palm out, closes her eyes. “But Clarke has asked me to try, and I owe her that, I owe her my life, so I'm trying.” She shakes her head and chuckles. “I can't believe I'm about to fucking say this, but you're not that bad. You can be funny when you feel like it, maybe even borderline not a total shitbag, but nowhere near good enough for her.”

 

Lexa can understand Raven's rage. She can understand her vengeance. She can understand wanting to protect Clarke. Unfortunately, that rational understanding does little to quell the fire scorching through her veins. She nods, clenching her jaw tight so she does not respond, and turns to walk away. She wipes her hands against her pants and leaves greasy stains and strands of long black hair behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another angsty chapter and it's still not done. sorry::not::sorry. though i can promise there's plans and whatnot and it will end soon.
> 
> thanks for being so sweet to me and saying nice things and also still reading this even though it's taking forever to finish. let me know what you think of this chapter!


	5. Chapter 5

It takes some time, but Lexa manages to slip out from under Ryder's carefully trained gaze. He'd been making it a point, it seems, to stay out of her line of sight so that she wouldn't do just that, but she is more perceptive than he apparently believes and it's easy to move through the Ark and lose him in its twisting corridors. There, he needs to leave more distance between them; There are no trees or tents to offer him coverage, and his significant bulk causes certain spots in the floor—damaged from the crash—to groan under his feet. She knows it's not his fault. He is doing his job, and doing it well, at that. But Lexa has never been one to accept coddling, cannot stand the idea of being constantly in another's presence, even if they are simply lingering in the shadows to keep her safe. It is something she has never quite adjusted to since becoming Commander.

 

That is how she ends up in the forest, halfway to the river with the intention to harvest plants for her salve, when something orange catches in the periphery of her vision. She doesn't need to turn to know what it is, and she thinks she should most certainly _not_ stop if she wants to maintain any semblance of  emotional stability for the celebration later today (and, probably, seeing Clarke at that celebration), but her body stumbles and freezes and she can't bring herself to move forward any further.

 

As if that isn't bad enough, her legs bring her over to the thing and kneel her down in front of it. And to really bring home the rebellion of her limbs, her arms join in—hands calloused and strong from a lifetime of  forcing sharp things into bodies  until they stop breathing cradling the orange petals with a reverent delicacy. Her eyes fall shut and her breath rushes out her nose all at once. She passes by poppies all the time.  E very day, even. They are not uncommon in these woods, though finding them  in the shadows of the trees is practically unheard of.  She remembers Costia laughing once, when Lexa had suggested she plant them in a shady spot in the western gardens of their home, and  Costia telling her 

poppies thrived only in the sunlight. She'd told her that was why they helped conquer the terrors of the night. Sheis not so selfish as to believe it true, but there is a part of her that feels the spirits have placed it there to mock her, after sending her visions of what she'd been asked to sacrifice to them all night.

 

She is torn between motivations: one to dig up the plant and keep it in the pocket of her coat (being in the Skaikru camp is not unlike being on the battlefield, after all), one to leave it untouched, and the final to do with her hands what she has been trained for—to crush the fragile thing between fingers and palm, to coat her hands in orange fibers and pollen, to take all of the flower's gentle beauty and turn it to nothing more than mashed pulp, to _destroy_. Her fingers twitch, almost closing around the petals before she catches herself and relaxes them again, though she makes no move to remove her hands from where they cup the flower.

 

She hears a rustle behind her, footsteps too light to be Skaikru but too heavy to be one of her female guards. Which leaves either Ryder, Lincoln, or Octavia as potential intruders. When the footsteps stop behind her and a body squats down to join her in studying the flower, she has her answer.

 

“ _I was looking for you.”_ Lincoln says, reaching out to trace the  silky tip of one of the petals with a fingertip. “ _I_ _was_ _wonder_ _ing_ _if you_ _would_ _help me hunt and gather herbs for tonight's_ _celebration_ _.”_ When she doesn't react to his presence, he shifts his weight so that he is turned to face her, but she doesn't make the effort to tilt her chin and do the same. “ _The_ _S_ _ky people are_ _getting better_ _, but their_ _attempts at_ _cooking still_ _aren't quite like home_ _.”_

 

Lexa feels the tightness in her jaw grow and she gives into the feeling and bites down harder, grinding her molars together. “ _Do you ever dream_ _about_ _her?”_ She asks, and it feels strange to  ask him a question such as this one after so much time has passed with each of them living in their own  separate worlds. Seems odd when Lexa has spent years trying to shove him (and any other reminder of Costia) far enough away from her life that she could breathe, that she could go more than sixty seconds without thinking of her or agonizing over some piece she'd missed, the one that would have meant she could save her. After  each resident of Polis who wished to had adorned Costia's pyre with their tokens—crops and jewelry and little trinkets carved of wood—laid them carefully upon it alongside her wrapped remains and what was left of Costia  and the tokens  had been burned  and the ash cleared away , Lexa had shut them all out of her life and her mind: Costia, Lincoln, Anya, Ash, Nyko. Anyone who could lead her back to her grief.

 

It takes Lincoln a moment to respond, and she can feel the tickle of his brown eyes (as graceful and delicate as his  finger had been on the flower petal not  long before) tracing the firm line of her jaw and the hardening of her eyes into an obscured, cloudy gray. “ _Yes, sometimes.”_ He runs his hand over his bald head and she remembers when Costia used to braid it for him, much like she did for Ash. She wonders if it is too painful for him to have it braided now the way it is too painful for her to both take the flower with her and to let it go.

 

“ _In my dream she told Ash our story, the way the Speakers used to.”_ She glances up at him now, takes in the small pursing of his lips, the lines crinkled into the skin of his brow and around his eyes, and knows he feels the same ache in his chest that she does.

 

“ _It was a popular tale. I hear it is banned in Polis_ _now_ _by order of the Commander_ _.”_ He sinks down so that his weight is resting on one knee and lays his forearm across the other. He reminds her of his father, sometimes. Kind and gentle even as he reset the bone in her leg, provided her with the worst pain she'd felt in her life. “ _What the two of you had deserve_ _s_ _to be celebrated, Leksa.”_

 

She snorts and shakes her head and thinks again of crushing the poppy in her hand. “ _You're wrong. It is a political maneuver_.”  She retracts her hand from around the flower before she does something rash and destroys it in her frustration. “ _It was necessary for people to believe_ _I was_ _a strong leader despite my connection to her, so they wrote songs celebrating her love as the source of my strength.”_ She swallows down the thick mucous crowding her throat and pushes onward, determined to remind him that his memories of her were tangled up with fallacies of strength and a divine sort of perfection no one person could ever really achieve.“ _No one ever talked about how I was forced to grow distant from her and_ _how_ _she began to resent me for it, for the secrets I needed to keep and all the time I needed to spend away from her.”_ The memory hurts in and of itself, but recounting it, admitting it, telling it to _Lincoln_ of all people feels scalding and barbed and tortuous. _“_ _N_ _o one ever waxed poetic about how she cried the night before I was to leave_ _for Polis and how she_ _asked me to lay with her until our passion brought some semblance of stillness, only to find that it would all come rushing back moments later and she would beg me to touch her, to let her touch me_ _again_ _.”_

 

He exhales sharply, in a way that makes her think he is well acquainted with that sort of desperation, the kind that is entirely illogical but simply cannot relent, the kind that thinks overindulging now will stave off starving to death later. “ _No, they didn't. But you wouldn't have wanted them to, anyway.”_

 

“ _That_ _i_ _s because they can't know who I am, not r_ _eally_ _. They can't know how broken I was after she died,_ _or_ _how often_ _I_ _thought_ _about_ _walking into the river in my armor o_ _r_ _dying by my own sword_ _. The story ends with me becoming stone because that is what I needed the other clans to believe of me when I_ _became their_ _command_ _er_ _.”_ Her voice begins to sound hoarse and strangled but she pushes on, feeling the flare in her nostrils as the words explode out from where they'd been bottled and fermenting in her depths, turning to vinegar. “ _Because I needed them to know I would stop at nothing for peace, even if_ _peace_ _meant losing everyone and everything that mattered to me,_ _even if it meant slaughtering all who stood in my way_ _.”_

 

He's still just looking at her, and it's almost frightening. Almost, because he has always been understanding with her but she knows there is a small part of him that rebels against her brutality. It is a part that has only grown in the company of the Sky people, and though she is not fearful of much, there is a corresponding small part of her—a part that is still just Lexa the girl and not Heda—that craves his approval.  _“And your people are grateful for that.”_

 

She shakes her head. “ _They_ _don't know. Not really. Stories are just stories.”_ There's a brief pause when Lexa thinks Lincoln might speak again—she knows he wants to, at least, from the way his lips have pressed even tighter and his brow has furrowed even deeper—but he doesn't, and she pushes up to stand. “ _You_ _are_ _hunt_ _ing_ _for boar?”_ She asks. He nods and rises to  his full height as well. “ _Then we'll need to head further North. We saw_ _tracks_ _not far when riding in from Polis.”_

 

They hunt in silence, keeping quiet lest they alert the boar to their presence, but there is something comforting about Lincoln's presence nonetheless during that time. There is something about it that feels ancient—older than the both of them put together—this combination of predator and prey, brother and sister, death and satiation. She almost lets herself forget that she is no longer thirteen, that her leg is not freshly mended and still a little too weak for combat (even though it still aches sometimes for no reason when the weather changes or she runs too hard on it). She almost lets herself forget that she has not gone out hunting with the healer's son—a man who will return with her to TonDC in several weeks' time to begin training as a warrior—to provide food for the family that has preserved her life in the face of certain death. She thinks he might feel it, too, if the giddy grin he sends her way after the boar lets out a final squeal and collapses is any indication. They are not children anymore, but perhaps those young spirits still live in them somewhere.

 

Lincoln throws the carcass over his shoulder, and they head to the river next, collecting herbs with which to season the boar along the way. When they arrive, she tells him of her injury and Lincoln cleans the wound then dresses it with an already-made poultice, explaining he'd needed to collect more anyway. She nods her thanks and they do not speak until the flash of orange catches in the periphery of her vision again. By now, it is past midday, and she knows they'll need to get a start on roasting the boar quickly. Stopping to simply continue looking at a plant she sees every day is not an option. But they do need one more thing before they return. She pauses to begin to gather logs, speaking to Lincoln over her shoulder.

 

“ _To build_ _a roasting spit._ ” She explains, and he disappears in the other direction to begin choosing sticks of his own. It doesn't take long, just long enough for Lexa to cut the stem of the flower and tuck it into her coat, before they are comparing sticks and choosing the most apt, then heading back toward the camp again.

 

When the gates of Camp Jaha become visible through the treeline and they begin their descent down the hill, Lincoln finally speaks again. “ _She would have liked Klark.”_

 

Lexa nearly stumbles over her own feet, but she rights herself quickly and continues moving stubbornly forward. She wants to object, to tell him again not to speak to her about Costia, but he is perhaps the only person in these woods, on this world, that has as much right as she to do so.

 

“ _Perhaps more than she liked you, toward the end.”_ He adds, and it stings a little, even if she knows it's meant in jest. Because he's probably right. Costia's death hadn't been the beginning of the change in Lexa, it had been the end, the completion, the permanence. The flame to her pyre.

 

She nods, scrambles to think of something to say that might make her feel solid and in control and grounded again but nothing comes to mind, so instead she speaks  the truth about Clarke for  what feels like  the first time. “ _I thought I was healed shut, but she has split me open again._ ”  It is a relief to say it out loud as much as it sends a note of terror and disbelief through her.

 

She doesn't look at him but she still knows the soft smile on his face very well. It is the same one he wore when she and Costia were bonded together, the same one he wore when they spent evenings at the lake together, the same one he wore now only for Lexa and Octavia. “Y _ou_ _'ve done the same for_ _her.”_

 

Lexa scoffs. “ _She wasn't broken until she met me.”_

 

Lincoln just shrugs a shoulder with a half smirk on his lips.  _“Believe what you want, Leksa, but she is not so difficult to read when your heart isn't the one in danger. The Sky People's hearts shine in their eyes, and hers follow you everywhere with affection.”_

 

With that, they pass through the gates and lay their conversation to rest. Lincoln leaves to clean the boar while Lexa begins digging the roasting pit and building a spit. She tries her best to focus, but she cannot quite bring herself to pay full attention to the work in front of her. Instead, she is diverted by thoughts of Clarke. Could it be so obvious even though she could not see it? Was the prettiness of Clarke's face, the lilt of her voice, the passion in her eyes really so strong a distraction she could not find affection there for anything but those Clarke numbered among her people?

 

After a few minutes, a girl with brown hair braided thick down her back and eyes wide with something like fear, something like nerves (not hate or disgust, this one must be one of the first to have fallen from the sky. The original Sky people have a much better understanding of what it means to do what has to be done) walks over. She asks to help, tearing Lexa from her thoughts, though she is grateful. She falls into her leadership mode, giving instructions from one side of the spit while the girl (who shakily identifies herself as Monroe at some point during their interaction) tries to replicate what she's doing on the other. It takes a bit longer than it would have if Lexa had worked alone but she finds that she doesn't quite mind. The company, although mostly silent, grows more comfortable as time passes and it's nice to have the upper hand in the Skaikru camp for once. And Monroe seems more than happy to let Lexa's hands linger over hers as she explains what must be done. Even if they've lost some time, the fire is still roaring and ready by the time Lincoln shows up with the pig.

 

Lexa's patient instruction and calm trust in Monroe's ability to complete the (admittedly, quite simple) task seems to have coaxed some of the fear out of the girl. And she thinks Lincoln is right, that she sees everything in this Monroe's eyes: apprehension and unease and the smallest touch of a wary affection and admiration. Lincoln apparently notices it, too, because he stands beside her as they skewer the pig on the spit and leans in close to mutter to her under his breath, quiet enough that Monroe cannot hear. “ _It seems Klark is not the only one among the Sky People that wishes to take my sister's place at your side.”_

 

She wants to be angry—really, she does—but she has spent the lastday or two remembering every small seed of affection he's ever planted in her heart and watching them bloom into maturity. And Monroe is sweet if not a little young, a little too innocent for her. So instead she smirks and focuses more closely on her hands' work so she doesn't give away her begrudging amusement. “ _They should be so lucky.”_

 

She is tired from a night of fitful sleep and a day of waking nightmares, but it is fading because as she watches the pig cook—as she chops vegetables and herbs to be served along with the meat and deflects Lincoln's teasing about how she wields a knife poorly in the kitchen despite being able to kill a man with one from a hundred paces, despite being promised to a healer who had chopped these very plants all the time for poultices and tinctures—she realizes she will see Clarke soon. Tonight, they will celebrate the pact between their clans, the one that brings the Skaikru into the alliance (which had been agreed upon only because they could keep the majority of their self-governance in the end. After all, Lexa had no desire to micromanage the minutiae of daily Skaikru life), and Clarke will have to be there. She is the one who orchestrated it, after all. The celebration is hers.

 

Her heart beats thickly in her chest for the rest of the preparations, her hands trembling so fiercely when she sponges the ceremonial paint onto her face that her reflection shakes in the hand mirror. She has yet to hear from any Skaikru “leader” about the incident the other night and, unless Clarke and Bellamy have managed a way in without alerting her guards, they haven't even returned yet. Which...

 

Worries her. Just a little. Not that worrying is something Lexa usually does.

 

Clarke and Bellamy are skilled in combat, but they weren't armed when they ran off, they were intoxicated, and there are some things in the forest even she cannot best; things that know the forest better than she. She has the advantage, however, of knowing what those creatures can and can't do, knows how to outsmart them and so she has a chance of survival. Clarke and Bellamy have no such training or knowledge, though Lexa reminds herself that Clarke had managed to outsmart the Pauna when Lexa failed to, so she forces herself to take a few deep breaths and trust in them. They will be fine, Clarke will be present tonight, she will see for herself that she is fine.

 

* * *

 

Clarke is not present. And fuck, Lexa is not fine. From the looks of things, she is also not the only one.

 

It didn't take long after the cooking fires were started that people began to gather. First, it was her entourage—a mixture mainly of the Tree clan and emissaries from the Boat people, who have always been close allies—then a spattering of the Sky people, who stood around and talked among themselves as the members of the Trigeda among them worked. By the time the sun began to set it seemed the entirety of the camp had been drawn to the scent of smoke and pork, lingering just far enough away it wasn't obvious they were ogling the meat hungrily. Abby is one of the last to arrive, and the second she sees Lexa across the way and realizes she is alone, panic flashes across her features. She turns to Kane, drags him a ways away and whispers out words that, if her face is any indication, are less than pleasant. He disappears and soon she sees guards fanning out through the camp with grim faces. So the Skaikru do not know Clarke's whereabouts, either. She tries to think if the pond is located near the hunting grounds of any of the many monster predators that stalk the woods, but if it is, she cannot remember. Her heart hasn't gotten a rest from its incessant breakneck thumping all day and Lexa is starting to feel its toll in the exhaustion that seeps into her once again.

 

“Commander.” Abby Griffin is standing next to her, staring down at where Lexa squats to tend the pan of vegetables suspended over the fire with an accusatory expression like Lexa is hiding Clarke in one of her pockets, like she could just make her appear out of thin air if she wasn't so stubborn. “Have you seen my—” She cuts herself off and exhales slowly and tries again. “Have you seen Clarke?”

 

“Not since last night, no.” There is absolutely no point in lying to her, though she wonders if Abby truly believes her anyway. If Clarke ever asked her to lie about her location, she would surely do so. Clarke's trust and well-being was much more important to Lexa than Abby's, and all knew it.

 

She feels more than anything the shift in the man to her right. Ryder's weight is settled awkwardly on his bones somehow, and he rocks from side to side as he tries to get it to sit right. “ _She was here earlier, Commander. While you were hunting.”_ His eyes flicker over to Abby to see if he can catch any recognition in her eyes, to see if she can understand him in the slightest, but she looks as confused as ever. Of course, Octavia, Kane, and Clarke had been the only ones to ever try to learn their language, she would not expect the rest of them to know it. “ _But she left before you returned.”_

 

“ _Why was I not informed of this earlier?”_ She feels a nauseating (and lethal) combination of frustration and confusion and _fear_ eddying in her abdomen, and she swallows down the acrid taste that rises to the back of her throat and tinges the taste of her own spit.

 

“ _You said it was none of your concern.”_ Well, he has her there. He had been just following orders—ones she gave him this very morning. She certainly can't be angry with him for this.

 

“ _Do you want me to find her, Commander?”_ Marisol, one of her best trackers and a member of her entourage for the visit, asks from her other side. Mari cocks her head, strands of short dark hair characteristic of the Boat people to the East falling into thick, long eyelashes.

 

She waves a hand in dismissal. “ _No. Klark has made her decision, she may live with its consequences.”_ It is only then that she returns her attention back to Abby. “My guards have informed me that Clarke arrived in the late morning to replenish her supplies before returning to the woods. You may wish to ask her friends among the Sky people about where she is now.”

 

Abby nods, as cordial a gesture as she ever got from her most days. “Thank you, Commander.”

  
Lexa dips her head in acknowledgment, and watches Abby disappear into the throng of people. She instructs Ness (another of her people) to keep an eye on the boar and goes to take her place at the head of the table. At one point, Abby returns (without Clarke, she notes) and the evening continues. They exchange gifts (the Tree clan offers a ceremonial sword and crop seeds, and the Sky people offer antibiotics and a light armor they claim is strong enough to stop a bullet from one of their guns. Lexa is happy they all decide to stay away from anything digestible this time), and share the meal and when it is all over, the Speakers she brings with her sing songs while the rest of her warriors beat on their drums or dance in the background. Even the Sky people seem to enjoy this, and join in on the call and response songs. Lexa spends her time translating general concepts from the songs for the Sky people's council.

 

They sing songs she herself had chosen for the evening. She takes great pride in telling the stories of her ancestors to the Sky people; it reminds her of receiving her tattoos, of Anya's gruff voice—perpetually amelodic but beautiful in its own right. It reminds her of her nomon, singing softly to her when sleep would not take her easily. It reminds her of sitting by a fire with Costia's arm around her and her head on Costia's shoulder, listening to the Speakers. Yes, she loves these stories and yet her favorite moment is not when they sing of the Commander's glory or the Trigeda's ingenuity. It is when they sing the songs of Coyote—in particular the one where the young woman steals his erection until he can learn to be an adequate lover. It had always been one of her favorites, but the look on the Sky people council's faces as she explains is enough to make her want to tell it again and again and again.

 

Monroe tries to catch Lexa's eye from across the field repeatedly, but Lexa doesn't allow herself to smile back. If they were in Polis, perhaps she could have this: small, flirting brushes, a teasing glint of teeth, the promise of a kiss, a touch, an orgasm. She knows leaders from some of the other clans keep entire harems at their disposal, but such has never appealed to her. She thinks it must be the difference between those borne of leaders who succeed their parents to glory and those who are brought to leadership from humble beginnings. There are certain things that cannot be taught in lessons or reliably inherited. If anyone knows this truth well, it is Lexa.

 

At some point, Monroe tires of her unsuccessful flirtations and finds a young dancer from the boat people to teach her their fight dances. It is a gorgeous, masterful art; one that takes skill and concentration far beyond Monroe's abilities, but she tries and does what Lexa would judge as “well,” for a beginner. But even this brings her back to Clarke, to the way she had made the same mistake in Polis, of thinking that a near miss would be simpler to achieve than an accidental hit. Yet, she'd looked beautiful doing it. Graceless, but gorgeous as her muscles shook from the exertion of the slow movements, of holding herself still in poses one normally leaps through. Silly, when her fake punches went far wide of her teachers' faces in her fear she might accidentally harm them.

 

She was far better at drumming. There was a natural rhythm to Clarke when she was not  over-thinking it so much, when she was letting loose to the vibrations in her skin and keeping time with the other drummers around her. When each part of her was an instrument, the scrape and pound of a boot on wood, or the clap of her hands together or tapping of fingers on the  deer hide drum-head. The deep bass of a nice clean hit from  a cloth-wrapped drumstick.

 

She loses herself so deeply in thoughts of Clarke, in the desperate _missing_ of Clarke, that she hardly notices that the numbers begin to falter. The Sky people grow tired and, eventually, her people do, too. It is then, when she once again retires to the darkness of the Ark, that she allows herself to feel Clarke's absence rather than lose herself in memories of her presence. This event had been so important for their alliance, and she has chosen not to show herself. Has she left again? For good, now that she has solidified the alliance between Tree and Sky? Is she with Bellamy still? Have they left to be with each other?

 

She doesn't think she can bear that thought and she shuts her eyes tightly, in a vain attempt to make it stop. She does not doubt, it is not how a Commander acts. A Commander does or does not, there is no time for what if's and maybe's. But Clarke, Clarke changes everything. She makes Lexa feel like less than the divine elder spirit she contains, makes her feel fallible and terribly terribly fragile. She knows she will sleep fitfully that evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hate me yet? i promise our lil Clarke bear is in the next chapter (which will be the final one) , and that that will be out within the next 5 days (i have it mostly written, it just needs some polishing). also, stories about coyote's erection are pretty prevalent throughout native american storytelling but my experience w those stories has been in the western us. so i'd like to believe that some of those stories would make it through the apocalypse and end up in the new lore, but i may be way off-base with my regions. if that's so, serious apologies and i can switch it around.
> 
> lemme know what you think


	6. Chapter 6

And no, she does not dream that night. It's both a blessing and a curse, she thinks, because what she gets instead is an evening of positions that are not quite comfortable, of twisting this way and that in a useless attempt to find one that is better. But there are no visions—no torturous, teasing glimpses of a past time when other futures still felt possible, of people that should still be by her side. She slips in and out of sleep, but it feels like she hasn't slept at all by the time she grows weary of being still and stiff and rises. Her joints and ligaments groan the way they used to when she was a simple warrior and slept on the rough, unforgiving firmness of the ground. She makes her way out toward where her people rest and does her best to ignore the uncomfortable rigidity of her movement. Ryder is the only one already awake and when she settles onto the log next to him he has already pulled out the water canteen and some meat for breakfast.

 

She waits for a moment, hoping he will update her again as he did yesterday, but he is a good warrior and remembers her orders and stays silent. He simply tears into the meat and keeps his eyes on where the sun has begun to appear over the treetops, casting looming shadows tinged the sort of glowing pink that doesn't manifest anywhere but in the sky. It makes the forest seem dark and grasping and sinister—mere tendrils of smoke curling out to envelope the naïve—and the sky seem vibrant and alive, and it is painfully appropriate that she should think so here, among the children of the stars.

 

She almost breaks down and asks Ryder if Clarke returned in the night before she remembers again that the only one who would know is the night guard, Ness, now sleeps. Ryder would not have asked and it would be unfair to wake her for the satiation of a relentless but overall inane curiosity. There is no way to truly know, and she thinks that she is probably better off without the knowledge, anyway. It is probably better to simply put it out of her mind. The breadth of Clarke's influence on her sends a gentle trembling through the meat of her; she is not sure whether it's from fear or frustration or anticipation—perhaps an awful combination of all three. So she tries to force thoughts of Clarke away.

 

After a silent breakfast (the silence feels much less merciful this time), she shoves at Ryder's leg playfully and asks “ _have you eaten too much, or do you have the strength to spar with your Commander without spilling your stomach?”_

 

He hides a smirk behind the water canteen and then his forearm as he wipes the excess drops from his beard. “ _I certainly have the strength, though it would be a shame to embarrass you in front of our new allies.”_

 

She stands with a just a hint of her own smile. They don't even need to exchange words before they're shucking their jackets and armor (it is a practice, yes, but it's a friendly one and there's no need for anyone to get hit by a fist full of spikes) and stepping into an area marked less by any verbally agreed-upon consensus and more by a memory—the feeling of the sparring pits that is branded into them both from years of practicing in them. There are many of these invisible boundaries in Lexa's life, she thinks. They are comfortable and safe, and she had enjoyed them before, enjoyed knowing precisely how to flex and maneuver to stay within them. But now she finds herself contorted so far she can't remember what it means to be free of knots. Now she is a stillborn, what had once been as comfortable as her mother's womb has become her death shroud.

 

These are precisely the thoughts she is trying to distract herself from, and she knows she is failing. Worse than her inability to control what is raging inside of her is the fact that she is underperforming. She is a much better fight than this, but every flash of blonde or sparkling laugh sends her eyes skittering away from the match and over to the source of it. It happens again, this time in the form of a tall, lean, muscular man with deep brown waves of hair that brush the tops of his cheekbones. Her head whips just as Ryder rolls to his feet from where she'd knocked him to the ground seconds ago.

 

She knows it's a fatal mistake. She tenses for the impact of his fist before she even has time to look back to him but when her eyes finally follow his fist isn't the first thing she sees. He's telegraphing a sweep of his leg (a stupid move for someone of his bulk against someone as lithe and graceful as Lexa) and she jumps over it easily and kicks at his side while he's still crouching. He tumbles over and she walks swiftly to him and presses her boot onto his neck.

 

“ _Do n_ _o_ _t coddle me, Ryder.”_ She snaps, and presses her foot down more firmly over his windpipe. His fingers twitch like they are going to move but remain stubborn and motionless by his sides. “ _You are a warrior.”_ She growls out, the frustration of the past few days building into this: an act of aggression, of power, that she could only commit against her own warriors or her enemies. A little more pressure on his throat could crush it and kill him, she knows. But this is what it means to be Heda. Strong, delicate accuracy; passionate, flawless control. “ _Act like one.”_

 

He reaches up and shoves with surprising swiftness at her leg, sending her stumbling and hopping backward to keep upright. Then, all that weight is hurtling forward at her faster than she'd thought possible and she is on her back with Ryder's arms heavy on her wrists and the rest of his weight pinning her at the hips. She is happy to have a real fight on her hands, a threat so imminent her brain has no choice but to pare down to only the most essential thoughts. Thoughts of weaknesses and strengths, of maneuvers and strategy. These are what she excels at, what she is comfortable in, and she takes the opportunity to let all the leeches of worry that had been clinging to her heart fall away.

 

She manages to twist a wrist out from his grasp and slams it down into the crook of his elbow with more than enough force to cause a crushing, radiating pain she is all too familiar with (Anya truly believed in learning from experience) while falling just shy of seriously injuring the joint. He groans and jumps in his shock, and she takes the opportunity to thrust her hips up with the motion and buck him off. They both roll away from each other and onto their feet. Ryder is hunched over, cradling an elbow that surely still aches with abandon, but there's a little mirth hidden in the snarled baring of teeth that is not lost on her.

 

“ _It is good_ _to see you feeling better,_ Heda _._ ” He mutters, and it's dry but there's humor and affection coiled in it, too. His tone wraps around her, warms her, like a hug or a dip into warm water and her shoulders loosen just slightly from where they'd been tensed.

 

She can feel the tender upturn in her cheeks at his sweetness, despite her lack of patience with him not so long ago. He is a kind man, though he is strong and quiet, and he has served her well for many years. She realizes, in a sudden flare of white hot pain in between ribs that she misses Gustus. The leeches bite down again and suck the affection straight from the source. “ _Can you continue or not?_ ” The words come out brusque and crisp, and the smile drops from his eyes.

 

“Sha, Heda _.”_

 

So they continue their fight, much more brutal and unforgiving than before, until a voice interrupts them from the sidelines. Lexa looks up from where she is standing, momentarily leant over to catch her breath while Ryder does the same on the ground a few feet away.

 

“Don't you think maybe you should pick on someone your own size, Commander?” Octavia's there, leaning against one of the many hunks of metal littered inexplicably throughout the camp (debris from the crash, perhaps?) in a tank top and those black sky people pants—the ones with all the straps and pockets—looking far too smug about the possibility of fighting someone who has had a lifetime's more experience in combat than her.

 

Ryder raises an eyebrow but says nothing, and Lexa abandons him in favor of staring down this intruder in her morning. “You want to fight me?” She asks, because she can't really be sure with the Sky people sometimes, if they're joking or they're honest.

 

“Yeah.” Octavia swaggers forward a couple steps until she's right in front of Lexa then raises a challenging eyebrow (matched with the twist of a smirk on her lips). “Unless you're afraid.”

 

If Lexa weren't staring an enemy in the face right now, if she didn't need to maintain as much of a frightening demeanor among those whose loyalties are slippery, she would have laughed— _grinned_ with the giddy excitement that courses through her in that moment. Octavia will not pull punches. She is swift and agile and strong, and she has trained with Lexa's own closest adviser. It will be a good match, one that will push her to exhaustion (she's almost already there, honestly), but she has no doubt she will come out victorious and seeming stronger than ever, especially in the eyes of the Sky people.

 

Octavia is as formidable an opponent as Lexa had anticipated, one who manages to land several solid strikes to Lexa's body and face and even pin her once or twice. But she is sluggish from the alcohol the night before, and without her quickness, there is little fight to be had. There is a string of hits that leaves Lexa reeling, but when Octavia makes the impulsive mistake of diving at her to knock her off balance, it is simple work to shift and use her own momentum against her. Octavia falls hard and gracelessly onto her stomach in the dirt. But she gets back up—the stubborn fool—and glides into Lexa's space again, hovers just outside of her arms' reach before jabbing with one hand and trying to immediately land a blow to her stomach with the other. Lexa dodges the first and blocks the second, then strikes out with a knee to catch her opponent in the hip—the spot in the center that always sends her enemies off-balance and to the ground. But Octavia manages to twist away in time, dances back then forward again.

 

There is something that has been festering inside of Lexa with each motion; a frustration building into something frantic and feral. The itch of things she is ignoring, clawing at the walls she's built around them to keep them hidden away. And Octavia sits at the heart of it all: both Tree and Sky, sister of Bellamy, friend of Clarke, promised to Lincoln. A reminder of everything she has shut out over the past year in favor of the pulsing desire that steals her thoughts and translates them to ones of Clarke's safety and well-being, of her lips.

 

The something frantic is at a head now, bubbling over into momentum in her limbs and Lexa lands a hit to Octavia's face that cracks sickeningly and for a split second she lies motionlessly on the ground. The energy that had been mounting in her drops instantly when Lexa realizes she had let it take control of her. She had swung with more force than she usually would in a situation like this, and the realization makes her world begin to tilt and sway. Lexa is rational and level-headed, not ruled by her heart. This is the gift of the Commander spirit, and she has shunned it—shamed it.

 

She kneels beside her and presses a hand to her cheek. “ _Oktevia_ _, are you all right?”_

 

During the fight, a crowd had assembled: Mari and Raven in animated conversation about instruments, Lincoln and Ness silently watching the spar with little upturns to the corners of their lips, Monty standing next to them looking anxiously from the stoic warriors to his right back to Octavia and Lexa. She does not notice until now, when she can hear the vacuum of their silence, of their held breaths. Though, none but the healer Talia dares to breach the pit's imaginary borders (well, none but Raven who rushes forward and is held back by Lincoln). Talia hovers behind Lexa's shoulder, not yet kneeling or crowding into her space. Then, Octavia's eyes flutter and open and she lets out a little chuckle.

 

“ _The Commander h_ _onors_ _me with a b_ _attle scar_ _.”_

 

Talia places a hand on Lexa's shoulder and Lexa stands to give her space to set Octavia's nose and control the bleeding while all her warriors do their best to pretend they are not staring at her from the corners of their eyes. Whispers had begun, she knew, since the moment she had agreed to spend time among the Sky people her first night here. When she was seen running for the gates with the lot of them, and then returning without Clarke and Bellamy, they had only rippled larger and louder. Ryder is discreet, he has been a guard for quite some time and was used to keeping secrets. But the rest of them are Speakers and scouts, those who trade in tales and knowledge.

 

Lexa knows quite well that when the truth is not forthcoming, lies are sure to rush in with all the force of the river and fill the space. She isn't sure exactly what they say when she isn't around (which has been more often than not lately), but she also knows the details are not important. She has not been Heda recently—despite her efforts to contain her feelings for Clarke to their most intimate moments she has slipped, she must regain some sort of toehold in this oasis of _different_ wrapped in a forest she has called home her entire life. In this trap of memories she has been incapable of pushing away.

 

She is saved by the Sky people guards, oddly enough, when one of them walks up to address her. Ryder steps up behind her left shoulder, casting a hulking shadow over them both. The guard looks up at him, swallows, then returns his gaze to Lexa. She wants to sigh, because some of these sky people still struggle so hard with the truth of this world. They still fear Ryder when they should fear Lexa. They still mistake size for power.

 

“There are people at the gates that want to talk to you.” He says. His voice is shaky and his eyes skitter once again to Ryder and back.

 

“Who are these people?” Marisol appears at her right side with Lexa's discarded armor and weapons. Lexa immediately takes them and begins strapping them back on without even casting a glance Mari's way. It is good to know that she may have been slipping down a cliffside, but her people still stood by her side, as ready to offer a steadying hand as they have ever been.

 

“I don't know. Grounders.” He shrugs, then jumps at the glare he receives from the group of them. “They say they fr-from TonDC.” The words come out in a stutter, and Lexa feels every sort of done with the Sky's people's bumbling sort of fear.

 

When the gate scrapes open, it is to a much welcomed sight. Two of Indra's most trusted scouts sit atop their horses, masks of bone pulled across their faces to cover their lips and nose leaving only eyes and dark black markings visible, and braids brushing long against their shoulders. They dismount from their horses when they see her and nod their heads so deeply they are almost bowing. “Heda. _Sorry to disturb you, we carry news from TonDC._ ”

 

“ _Speak.”_

 

“ _The_ _rain has ended and the trees have been dry_ _, so we be_ _ga_ _n harvesting the_ _m_ _for the rebuilding_ _.”_ One of them whose name escapes her begins, his gaze unwavering from hers. He is, by all accounts, a hard man (has to be to serve Indra) but there is something in his eyes that gives her pause. They are glossy and dark and she knows the news that comes is not good. “ _The ropes broke while felling one. Four souls passed on to the next life, and three have been_ _seriously_ _injured.”_

 

In this moment, Lexa does not regret her position. She does not regret that she has the ability to offer some measure of comfort to those who loved the dead. This is what she fights for, for these people. War planning and glory are all well and good, but this is what sustains her, even as this particular news saddens her. She does not think of Clarke's lips now, nor of the gossip disseminating through her entourage.

 

“ _We have already lost_ _six_ _good people in the_ _rebuilding.”_ The other one, Eddie, speaks up. “ _Spirit in TonDC is low. Indra requests your presence to preside over the funeral.”_

 

Lexa nods. “ _Tell her I will gather my people and arrive by sundown.”_ They nod deeply again, and turn to mount their horses. She reaches out and catches Eddie by the forearm, and he turns to her with a silent, unquestioning subordination and respect in his eyes. “ _Tell her to make preparations for blessing the new life in the village, as well.”_

 

“Sha, Heda.”

 

And then they disappear, leaving swirls of dust glittering and dancing in the now-bright rays of sun and the fading, pounding cacophony of hooves on dirt. Ryder has followed her to beyond the gates and now she turns to him, seeing an echoing melancholy in him.

 

“ _Gather_ _the rest, tell them we leave when the sun touches the tops of the trees.”_

 

He waits a moment to see if there is more, but she waves him off and he disappears back into the camp.

 

The second she's back through the gates, Lincoln comes running up to her. “The riders were from TonDC? What happened?”

 

“That is not your concern.” She replies, continuing to walk swiftly and making him struggle to keep up with her pace.

 

“Not my concern? Lexa, that's my home.”

 

It is not so much the words that startle her as it is the illumination of the illogical flaw in her thinking that has been plaguing her the past few days: she has been looking through the eyes of who she was, not who she is. Her stomach roils in her belly and she feels hot flares burn up through her pores. She turns on him abruptly and he almost crashes straight into her before he can stop.

 

“No, Lincoln. You made your choice.” Their eyes are locked in a painful, unbreakable bond and she can feel his pain echo in her. When she speaks again, it is no less resolute, though it is much quieter. “This is your home now.” She walks away, leaving Lincoln grim and silent behind her.

 

She spends the next little while gathering her personal effects into knapsacks and snapping off orders to her people. It takes some time, but eventually the horses are saddled and will soon be ready to ride out. She is strapping the bags to her mount, just about ready to leave Camp Jaha (and a little early, as well), when there's a murmuring from the Skaikru present to see her off.

 

“Lexa!” She knows that voice too well, and it sends little reverberations of something she can't quite define bouncing off the inside of her skin. “You're leaving?”

 

The voice is right behind her now, and she clenches her jaw down hard to keep from saying more than would be appropriate. If it helps to dampen the overwhelming urge to turn and see Clarke, to know that she is safe (she is frustrated with her, after all, but she wishes no harm to her), then it is a much appreciated perk.

 

“Yes.” She tightens the strap with a bit more force than she had originally intended to and her mount huffs out her irritation with a breathy snort. Lexa looks up from the saddle bag to shoot her an apologetic glance, and the mare simply shakes her head and returns her gaze to the grass in front of her.

 

“You said you were going to—Lexa, look at me,” Clarke's hand is on her shoulder, tugging on it and trying to turn her, and it hardens the indignation in her bones to steel.

 

She breathes out evenly (though it takes quite a bit of effort) and tightens her grip almost imperceptibly on the strap in her hand, making the leather bite uncomfortably into her skin even through her gloves. “Remove your hand, Clarke.”

 

She can feel Clarke's hesitance somehow, the way her hand jolts just the smallest bit from her shoulder—enough so that there's no more physical contact but that her heat, her presence, remains. “You said you would stay a week.” Her voice sounds calm now, almost apologetic. It has lost the frantic recklessness of a few moments ago and something about this soothes the pain in Lexa that she is telling herself is anger.

 

But there are other, more important things to tend to. The alliance, Polis, TonDC, the killed, the injured, the new life, her warriors, her _people_. No, she cannot be swayed by Clarke's sweetness. She secures the final strap and turns calmly toward Clarke, keeping her expression blank and uninterested. Clarke is disheveled, to say the least: dirt is smudged on her right cheek, on her chin, on her forehead. Her hair is tangled and wild and uncombed, and there is blood stained into the cracks of her palms and thin red scratches from running through the trees anywhere that her skin is exposed. Even in such a state she takes Lexa's breath away.

 

Lexa pushes on, anyway. “I gave you my word I would stay in your people's camp with _you.”_ She clarified. She catches Clarke's eye and holds on tight. “I'm still new to your culture, Clarke, but when my people say we will host someone in our home village, we do not leave them unattended.”

 

The skin around Clarke's mouth tightens and wrinkles, and her eyes turn a frighteningly icy blue. A hue Lexa is unfortunately all too familiar with these days. “Right, because you always keep your word.”

 

She takes a step forward to crowd into Lexa's space and it has its desired effect, though Lexa makes sure to not let anyone know it. It is not... fear or intimidation that she feels, not exactly. It is something more like simply feeling at all, like being made painfully aware of the choices in her life that have left her hollow.

 

“And you would never walk away from someone when you promised to stay with them.” Clarke's voice cracks on the last few words and it's an empty comfort to see that she at least still cares enough to ache for what they could have had. “I just needed some space, Lexa.”

 

Lexa swallows hard. “And you will have it soon.”

 

She moves to turn back to her horse when, seemingly out of nowhere, Clarke laughs humorlessly and shakes her head. “Fuck.” She raises her face to the sky and shuts her eyes. “I didn't come back here to argue with you.” She wipes at them with the back of her hand and swallows down whatever nerves are causing the tremors in her hands. Finally she looks to Lexa again. “Look, can we just... talk?” There's a pleading that pervades Clarke's entire body then, the feeling Lexa has that Clarke is seconds from lurching forward into her arms. “In private?”

 

Lexa thinks about it for a moment. It would not be terrible to speak alone with Clarke. She has longed to be alone with her for much of her time in Camp Jaha, in fact. Yet these are hardly the circumstances under which she would like to do so. Her imagination had run wild with scenarios of the celebration; she had imagined it would be like the other feasts where she and Clarke had exchanged smiles and glances and maddeningly chaste touches. And then she'd imagined they would find a way for Clarke to slip back to Lexa's room, to kiss in the dark metal craw of the Ark, to finally touch in the way Lexa had wanted for so long, to bring what had been building between them to its natural crescendo.

 

But that hadn't happened. Clarke had disappeared. Clarke hadn't wanted that. There is no need to hear Clarke's rejection when she knows it is coming anyway. When she knows she had ruined whatever could have been between them when she turned her back on Clarke at the gaping maw of the Mountain. At the same time all eyes are on the two of them, and the new alliance between their peoples is still shaky. Dishonoring the Sky people's de facto leader (and one of Lexa's few ardent allies among them) would surely not be wise. She glances over to the treeline and sees that the sun is still a ways away from its tip, meaning she has time before she must leave. She turns back to Clarke and nods once.

 

Clarke turns and walks toward the Ark. Lexa follows dutifully, doing her best to stifle the anxious pulse beating in her chest and her wrists and her throat. When they enter the mansion of twisted metal, Clarke reaches back to take Lexa's hand without even looking, and Lexa does her best not to let her desperation for Clarke's touch show. Yet she cannot help the sharp little exhalation, the embodiment of the overwhelming relief her closeness brings, the way it breathes life back into her body. The path Clarke takes is winding and unfamiliar and it is not long before they arrive at the door to a room. When it opens and Clarke turns the light on, she realizes it is the one she has been occupying for the past few nights.

 

There's a long silence, then. One that seems to take more space than noise could ever dream to, one that is almost physical, almost like smoke hanging thick in the air around them.

 

“I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.” Lexa blurts, doing her best to keep Clarke's gaze despite the burning shame rising in her cheeks. “I misread your intentions, that is all.” Finally, she finds herself overwhelmed by Clarke's attention and turns to trace the marks carved into the desk in front of her. “The alliance is of the utmost importance to me.”

 

“Lexa.” She can feel Clarke's hesitant presence behind her, the heat that once again lingers just out of reach. But then, arms wrap around Lexa's stomach and a body presses itself to her back. “You didn't misread anything.”

 

Lexa exhales sharply and shakes her head. “Clarke, what are you doing?”

 

“Touching you.” Clarke's hand is adventurous, sliding its way between Lexa's shirt and her pants, finding warmth and toned muscle on her torso. “Do you want me to stop?”

 

Lexa again clenches her jaw tight to keep from reckless action. Truthfully, she doesn't know what she wants, not really. She certainly doesn't want Clarke to stop, but she also can't let this—whatever it is—go farther than it has without them defining it. “I want to know what you're doing.”

 

Clarke's hand stills and she sighs, letting her face fall into the crook of Lexa's neck and rest there, every breath tickling the sensitive skin where her pulse beats erratically through her skin. “I don't really know, honestly.” She takes a step back and this time she doesn't need to encourage Lexa to turn to her. “All I know is that I will never be yours.” Lexa watches Clarke as she stalks agitatedly from one side of the room to the other and back again. “Just as Costia was yours but you couldn't be hers because you belonged to your people.” She pauses in her pacing and looks to Lexa, her indecision plain in the awkward settling and resettling of her body, her crossed arms, her flared nostrils and bitten lip. “Right?” Lexa nods and Clarke continues, her eyes fluttering shut. “I belong to my people, too.” They open again and they are more raw, more honest, more beautiful than they had ever been before. “But you make me feel things I was starting to think I'd never be able to feel again.” She rests her elbow on her still crossed arm, covers her mouth with her hand. “Lexa, I'm—so scared of you. Of this.”

 

Lexa takes a step forward and raises her hand palm up between them. She never once looks from Clarke's face. Clarke, though, is staring at her hand as if she'd just pulled her heart straight from her chest and offered it up on a platter. She's just about to retract it when Clarke's jaw sets and her throat tenses in a hard swallow and she drops her hand from her mouth to slide it against Lexa's own. Lexa gives her arm a light tug, and Clarke takes an obedient step forward—still not touching Lexa, but close enough that it would take less than a step to do so.

 

“Bellamy was right, Lexa, I can't trust you.” She says softly, though she brushes her nose against Lexa's affectionately, anyway. “Not anymore.”

 

Lexa's hand is up, stroking soothingly along Clarke's jaw, drawing her lips closer. “I know.” She swallows, resisting the urge to kiss her again for just a moment. “And I would like the chance to earn your trust back. But,” she finally allows herself the indulgence of taking Clarke's face gently in her hands, of a chaste kiss (she can't help the thrill in her body when Clarke sighs against her lips like she'd been waiting for this as long as Lexa has), “that will take time. And you are right, we both have duties to attend to. It would be unreasonable for me to ask you to stay in Polis with me, just as it would be unreasonable for you to ask me to stay here with you.”

 

Clarke nods, leans her forehead against Lexa's and lets out a (overly-dramatic, in Lexa's opinion) discontented sigh. “So, what? We just see each other when we see each other?” She raises a hand up to grasp Lexa's wrist and hold her still so she can turn into the touch and place a tender kiss to her palm. “Pick up where we left off the last time?”

 

Lexa licks her lips and shakes her head with a small smile. “Every clan has a representative that spends a great deal of time in Polis.” She says, rewarding Clarke's affectionate peck by stroking her thumb along her bottom lip. “And as Commander, I often make diplomatic visits to their cities. You are the natural suggestion for such a position.”

 

Clarke searches her eyes for a moment, lost in thoughts (of what, Lexa does not know. After all, Clarke already acted as emissary to the Trigeda, simply in an unofficial capacity) then finally she nods. “Okay. Now stop talking about politics and kiss me already.”

 

Lexa is only too happy to comply, to press kiss after kiss against Clarke's lips, her jaw, her ear and neck. In that moment, everything begins to seem clear. She had been searching for a new soncha to fill her darkness, to illuminate her path, to keep her steady. But she is no longer a child of the sun, she does not play in lakes or pilfer wine or sing too loudly as she wanders the forest with her friends.

 

No, now she is the darkness: the bat, sailing through the cover of night to plot and map and bring death to those who oppose her. And Clarke, Clarke is light indeed, but not the light of the sun. She is the light of the moon, pale and just bright enough to light Lexa's immediate path, to provide both comfort and cover. She is the ever-changing, the constant, the mysterious, the known, the guide. She is uncontrollable, unable to be taken, to be had.

 

And she is in Lexa's arms, pushing their bodies together with all the force she has, clawing into Lexa's back as though she knows there is not enough time now, and never will be, for them to be together. Lexa is terrified, though this is something it takes her a great deal of effort to admit, even to herself. She is terrified of what this could mean, that it could be a trick, that it could be real, that Clarke does not really love her, and that she does, that she could.

 

She pulls back from their kiss but Clarke chases after her, attempting to pull her back in. Lexa stays strong and pulls back once again.

 

“I have to leave, Clarke.” She says the words softly and gives one final peck to her lips before pulling back. “Indra expects me in TonDC before sundown.” She reaches up to readjust the clothing that had been thrown out of sorts in the past... however long she'd been entranced by Clarke's touch.

 

Clarke sighs and collapses down onto the bed, raising herself up on her elbows and biting her bottom lip. “Suit yourself, Commander.”  
  
Lexa can't help the smile that plays on her lips, then. She is impressed with Clarke's sudden playfulness and very, very tempted. This will be a difficult terrain to navigate, indeed. “Your Marking ceremony is in Polis in a week.”

 

Clarke raises an eyebrow, the smirk dropping immediately off her face. “Marking? You mean you want to tattoo me?”

 

Lexa tilts her head to the side slightly and furrows her own eyebrows. “Yes. The emissaries from the clans all have the twelve marks on their backs. As you are the emissary from the thirteenth clan, you will need to be marked and also to place your mark upon us.”

 

Clarke swallows thickly and nods. “Yeah. Right. Tattoo.” She inhales deeply then lets it go just as evenly, the breath shaking the whole way. “Got it.”

 

Lexa can't help but walk over to stand between her spread legs, and Clarke raises immediately to meet her, tilting her head up to look at Lexa. “You are strong, Clarke.” She says, leans down to kiss her softly. “I will be there, as will the other emissaries. We will sing for you.” This gets a smile out of Clarke and earns her another kiss. “And if you do well, there will be other rewards for you, as well.”

 

Clarke lets out a satisfied little hum and leans back again—and again, Lexa finds herself fighting the urge to straddle Clarke's hips, to acquaint herself with Clarke's bodies in ways she'd been dreaming of for so long. “Who knew the Commander could flirt?” Clarke says with a small smile.

 

One that Lexa returns (though hers is considerably more mischievous) even as she turns and heads out the door. She allows herself the smile until she can see the rays of sun touch the floor of the Ark. The second she's outside, her mask drops back on and she swings up onto her horse and is off to TonDC, already planning just what Clarke's reward should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, this is it. hopefully, you enjoyed this ride with me through angstown, usa.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time writing for these two but i'm obsessed with them and couldn't help myself. blood-covered, emotionally-distant ladies with war paint (war paint, y'all) is apparently my weakness. lemme know what you think/constructive feedback welcome.


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